The Marksman
by Sendai
Summary: AU & OOC. Moriarty tries to recruit marksman, John, for a hit. John turns to the Yard and Sherlock Holmes for help. Sparks and bullets fly as John shoots his mark. Sherlock and Moriarty vie for John's affections (well who wouldn't want John). Johnlock, Mystrade, Mormor. M for violence, sex, nonconsex, language. PostingCh. 19, because I could. This is still rated *M* for a reason:D
1. Chapter 1

**A/N** As the summery states, this is somewhat AU with bits of canon thrown in for fun. As a result, expect characters to be OC some of the time. Oh yeah, Johnlock (eventual) and Mystrade (established).

Rated** M** for violence, non-con sex, sex and swearing. Also I do not have a beta or Brit-picker. (The word Brit-picker sounds so weird… but anyway) So please forgive any errors, but also please point them out so I can correct them.

**Disclosure **I do not own the rights to Sherlock Holmes, John Watson or SHERLOCK from the BBC. This is all just entertainment for us shippers.

**The Marksman**

"Anderson is an idiot!" snapped the tall, thin consulting detective.

The pale detective continued with his assessment, "The oil stains on the victim's clothing and the grime his nails clearly shows that he was working on a vehicle prior to his death. But do you honestly think that he deliberately put on a £700 tailored suit in order to work on his car? No. He was desperate. He knew that his life was in danger, and he was looking for evidence of vehicle tampering, because he suspected that his partner's death in a car carsh was not accidental, which is wasn't. However, he lacked imagination. He did not suspect that his coffee would be tampered with. Run tox screens on his blood, and the empty cup found in his car. Arrest the barista; she was paid to poison him."

"We have to have reasonable suspicion to arrest her," demanded Detective Inspector Lestrade loudly. "We can't just go around arresting people…"

"Arrange a drugs bust. She is addicted to prescription drugs. If you wait, she will probably make a run for it, and this case will not be properly closed" said Sherlock Holmes with a wave of his hand. He threw himself into Lestrade's comfortable desk chair and swung his long, thin legs onto Lestrade's desk scattering files and notes.

The shorter, graying detective inspector rubbed his forehead and sank weakly down onto one of the extra chairs in his office.

Stalemate. The two men glowered at each other ignoring the ringing phones and the other Yarders in the outer office as they also ignored the sky outside turning to indigo with the fall of night.

* * *

A nightmare, my life is a unmitigated nightmare, thought John Watson, formerly a RAMC Captain. He limped slightly as he marched down the darkened street avoiding, by habit, the pools of light from the street lamps. His cane tapped out a ditresss signal when he climbed the step and strode through the doors of The New Scotland Yard.

As the doors closed he face the grim realization that he had, for all intents and purposes, just signed his own death warrant. As if he gave a damn about that. As if anyone would give a damn. Christ, death would be a positive relief after the hell of retirement living in his one-room bedsit, and after the events of today…well.

"I need to report a murder plot," he said to the policewoman at the information desk, his speech clipped and precise.

The PC looked up at him startled. His lips were pressed in a fine line but his forehead was furrowed with his dismay. "For some reason, someone proposed that I kill someone else. That's illegal, yeah?"

She stared at him in some confusion. Oh, God. Not another paper pushing idiot when what I need is someone willing to act. He bit his lip in frustration before he tried again.

"I'm here to report it," John said reasonably. "This is Scotland Yard? You deal with homicides, yeah? Maybe I could speak to someone in Homicide?"

The PC sent the former captain upstairs to the homicide division. He was supposed to talk with a Sergeant Donovan. In the elevator, John took a deep breath to calm himself. He ran a hand through his short blond hair. As was his habit when stressed, he stood up even straighter, to look as tall and formidable as possible.

I am doing the right thing, he reassured himself. This is not grassing. This was not betraying his friend. Ha, his so-called friend, Colonel Moran, had betrayed and used him.

Hell, the Colonel basically sold me out to that creepy Irishman. The short blond suppressed a shudder remembering how the handsome Irishman gloated over John while the Colonel glared daggers at the former captain.

"_John, may I call you Johnny? I _will_ call you Johnny," said the man wearing an expensive looking hand tailored suit. John had remained at attention during his supposed job interview, his military training was not easily forgotten even months after his forced medical discharge._

"_Now, Seb here said you worked under him in the army. Ohhhh!" said Mr. Moriarty in a rising voice and clapping his hands together. The fancy businessman spun around to fix the Colonel with a narrow eyed glare that didn't match his grin. (Well, not the Colonel any more, not since Colonel's dishonorable discharge, thought John, pursing his lips.). "Ohhhh, I hope that doesn't mean you used Johnny-boy here for fun and games, Sebby. You know that I only want fresh, clean boys for game time"_

'_What the fuck?' thought John. His face still a mask of indifference. I'm supposed to be here for a job interview, for a job as a personal assistant and bodyguard. I'm not about to hire out as some fuck-toy for a weirdo businessman._

_Sebastian Moran grinned evilly, "Far as I know, John fits your requirements, boss. O' course, I thought you wanted him because he's a crack shot, but luckily, he's fresh meat." The tall man rubbed his thumb along the scar that ran down his face, suppressing a grimace. It wouldn't do to show disapproval. Moriarty did not tolerate criticism well; Moran had to be careful. _

"_Jealous, Seb?" asked the Irishman, smirking, and slicking back his hair._

_John wanted out. Christ, unemployment was better than this madhouse. _

"_Right. I think maybe there's been a misunderstanding," said John. Two pairs of icy eyes swiveled to stare at him like he was a rare and somewhat repulsive zoo specimen. He furrowed his brow and cleared his throat. The weight of his browning felt comforting in his waistband. "I'll just be leaving…"_

"_Oh no, don't' go Johnny. I can't let you go now. If I did; I'd have to kill you," the Irishman laughed at his little joke. On second thought, it probably wasn't a joke. John Watson felt the sweat forming on his forehead._

"_You are so cute, Johnny," said Irishman. "I think I like you. I have a kink for soldiers, don't I Seb? Now don't look so glum, Sebby. We can share him. We'll have so much fun." The man clapped his hands again and giggled. _

_Cute? John was obviously several years older and, not to mention. straight. John was _not_ cute. The businessman was clearly insane. John tried to estimate his odds for a successful escape. How fast could he grab his gun? If it was anyone else but the Colonel standing guard…Shite, Moran had read John's tells and already pulled out his gun. The former COlonel pointed his Sig Sauer at John. The former captain rewarded him with his best fake smile._

"_Oh this is going to be such fun," gushed the madman, watching the two soldiers square off. "But business before pleasure. Now here's the dealy-o, Johnny. I am going to hire you to eliminate this annoying little government official. I will reward you handsomely, and you and I might just take a little trip to the coast, something to look forward to, hmmm?" The younger businessman closed in and ran his fingertips along John's clenched jawbone. Then he grabbed John's short-cropped hair and pulled him down into a fierce kiss. John tensed to pull away but froze as he heard the Colonel snap back the slide on his handgun. _

"_Smart boy, Johnny," murmured the madman. He thrust his tongue into John's mouth exploring without permission. He suddenly bit down on John's lower lip, drawing blood and an involuntary grunt of pain. "Oh so eager, I like that!" exclaimed the Irishman. He sucked on John's injured lip making it hurt even more. FInally, he drew back. _

"_Seb said you were the smartest soldier boy he had in his unit,' said the handsome man. "So smart and just so precious. I'm just so pleased with you!" the madman's voice went from low to high pitch like a rollercoaster. It made John dizzy. _

"_And you were the best shot in his unit too, Johnny. Well except for Seb himself," sneered the madman, "Or so he says. Well gottta go. Sebby will explain your assignment, Johnny-boy. Then you hurry on back so we can carry on where we left off. And Johnny-boy," The crazy bastard slapped the former soldier across his cheek, snapping his head back. "Don't. Disappoint. Me." He punctuated each word with a stinging clout._

"_Bye," sang the obviously insane Irishman, as he sauntered out of his lavish underground office._

"_You got the job," growled the Colonel unnecessarily. "Congratulations. He likes you. You'll go far, if you live."_

John marched purposefully toward the doors labeled HOMICIDE. He held the door open for a PC guiding a man in cuffs, and then the former soldier stepped into the nearly empty office space. Desks and dividers filled the room. Forms and papers littered most of the desktops. A phone rang, only to be pickup up by voicemail.

"Excuse me?" John called out into the eerie, echoing space. "I'm supposed to find a Sergeant Donovan," said John politely. He automatically looked for potential threats and located cover and lines of retreat. He smiled grimly at this unshakable habit.

"Yeah? And you are?" asked a thirty-something black detective, who came out from behind a divider. She had curly black hair and an attitude. Her chin thrust out belligerently, as she spoke down to John. She took in his bruised lip and cheek; then she sneered at a fellow officer.

John reigned in his temper, barely. His right fist clenched unnoticed. "You are Sergeant Donovan?" he asked.

When she nodded, yes, John continued. "My name is Watson, John Watson, and I want to report a plot. I was propositioned today…"

"Well you've got the wrong department, Watson," she said flippantly. "This is homicide. If you're having a quarrel with your boyfriend you'll want…"

"I bloody well know what department I want, Sergeant," snapped the former Captain, standing with his feet apart in readiness for battle, "And your inappropriate response and flippant attitude are, at the very least, unprofessional. Frankly, you're a disgrace if this is how you would treat an actual assault victim.'

A ferrt-like man joined the Sergeant. "This is Scotland Yard and you have no business yelling at officers of the law. It's obvious from your face that you had a spat…"

"What's obvious is that you are both idiots!" John shouted.

The shouting carried to Lestrade's office. Sherlock slammed his feet to the floor and flew to the entry, pinning himself and Lestrade in the doorway. Finally, someone with enough brains to recognize the idiots on the force, thought Sherlock.

"God help Britain, if she depends on you lot for protection," the ex-soldier finished and then pivoted to leave.

"Hold on!" shouted Detective Inspector Lestrade, shoving past the nosy consulting detective. "Donovan, what's going on here?"

Donovan shrugged, looking sullen.

"You there, stop," shouted Lestrade. "Stop right there, Mister…Mister…"

"Watson," whispered Donovan helpfully.

"Mister Watson, where do you think you're going?" asked Lestrade.

Captain Watson turned. He eyed Lestrade and the tall, pale civilian looming behind him. He eyed the doorplate, then looked back at the Lestrade.

"I am going back to my flat, to put my affairs in order, Detective Inspector," answered John standing rigidly at attention. "And when you see me again, please remind your _colleagues_ that I did not die from natural causes. Good Night!" The short blond turned back towards the exit.

"What will you have died from?" asked a deep, baritone voice.

"A head wound, caused by a single round fired from an L115A3 at extreme range," said John without turning.

"It would be difficult for anyone to mistake that for natural causes," said Sherlock Holmes.

"Not for this lot. They are idiots," returned John Watson. He stopped suddenly. The tall man, wearing a dark, tailored suit, gripped his arm tightly.

The younger man tapped his finger against his lips, assessing the shorter ex-soldier.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" asked Sherlock.

John shifted in place. "Sorry?"

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" asked the man with thick, dark wavy hair.

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you…?" asked the irritated soldier. First he was dealing with idiots. Second he was going to be executed by his former superior officer. And, third, why the fuck was he admiring another man's dark, wavy hair let alone his lips?

"He said he was propositioned," said Sergeant Donovan. "I was going to suggest that he try Sex Crimes or…"

"Oh no, not propositioned, but he was assaulted earlier today," began Sherlock.

"No. No," the soldier emphatically shook his head. "I _never_ said that I was assaulted," said John, pursing his lips and lowering his brows further.

"Nonetheless, you were assaulted. Yet that is not the issue that brought you to Scotland Yard tonight. There is more," said Sherlock incisively. He began dragging the blond towards Lestrade's office.

"Who, who the hell are you?" demanded John. "Do you work for the police?"

"I am a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job," said Sherlock. He pushed John Watson backwards into a chair inside Lestrade's office. He went to shut the door but then looked out. "Well, will you be joining us, Lestrade? Whatever Mr. Watson has to say, I feel certain it will not be dull."

**TBC**

Reviews welcomed


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

John Watson looked out the windows; quickly assessing angles and lines of sites to determine which sites would best suit a sniper like Colonel Moran. Then he looked back at the self-proclaimed consulting detective who had just dragged him into Detective Inspector Lestrade's office.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows as he watched the blond clearly checking rooftops and windows for a possible threat.

"You are serious then, you do fear a sniper attack?" asked the tall man. He quickly began shutting the blinds.

"What? A sniper attack here in London?" asked Lestrade who had just stepped into his office. "Are there any snipers, here in London? Outside of the military, I mean?" He leaned back out of his office to yell, "Donovan, Anderson, I want you two to stay put until further notice." He ignored the sighs and eye rolls from his subordinates.

"Well, are there any snipers?" asked the detective inspector again, turning down the lights. If Sherlock is giving this man credence, then maybe I should too, thought Lestrade.

"At least two…that I know of," answered John, rubbing his aching jaw. The other sniper, his former superior officer, had punched him square in the jaw after delivering the Irishman's insane orders. Apparently the Colonel didn't want to share the madman's sexual favors.

As if John wanted anything to do with that maniac ever again. When John remembered that horrid man kissing him, he involuntarily shuddered.

The consulting detective reassessed the blond. He is trembling with fear. Oh, he still thinks snipers are after him even with the blinds down.

This was not going to be as interesting as he had hoped. Perhaps this is just another paranoid schizophrenic with a persecution delusion. Dull. He sighed, and, like a six-foot tall toddler, he fell bonelessly back into Lestrade's desk chair. He and the chair rolled backwards to crash into the wall.

"And you're afraid that the snipers are after you? Let me guess; they can read your mind using the telly?" asked Sherlock taunting, with his bored baritone voice.

John snorted derisively. "First, I am not afraid of the other sniper. I was merely stating a fact. I accept that he will target me as me soon as he finds out I'm here. I'm not thrilled with the fact, but there it is. Second, if I was psychotic, challenging my delusion like that is unkind, bordering on cruel, not to mention potentially dangerous. So you don't have any reason to act so superior. Third…"

"You're _not_ afraid of the _other_ sniper? " said Sherlock, sitting back up and resting his elbows on his knees.

John shook his head no and had to suppress a smile; this consulting detective's mercurial mood shifts alternated between amusing and alarming. And while the man was admittedly quite handsome, just now, he reminded John of a giant walking stick insect that didn't quite fit into his chair.

Sherlock's interest was piqued once more, "And _you, you're_ the second sniper. Are you rivals… or coworkers? Did you have a falling out? Did you trespass on his turf? You claim that you are not afraid; yet just now you clearly shuddered."

"Stop. Slow down, I can't possibly answer that quickly. Moran was my superior officer in the army. We aren't rivals or anything. I hadn't seen him in over a year until today. And while I'm not eager to get shot, it's hardly making me shake in my shoes," said John.

"Yet you are afraid of something. What is it you are afraid of?" asked Sherlock once more intent.

"No," John said through pursed lips, "No, It's personal." As if I'd tell you what that mad Irishman wants from me.

Sherlock tilted his head at the direct refusal. He required information. His eyes narrowed ready to push the former soldier.

"OK. OK. Sherlock stop. Switch off," ordered Lestrade. "Alright Watson, if you're not worried about being shot, why _are_ you here at seven o'clock at night talking about snipers?"

"That part's obvious now, Lestrade. Watson came here in order to save the person he's been contracted to assassinate. Which explains why Watson feels he's about to be shot by Moran. Naturally, his Colonel will retaliate for betraying the plot. It's simple. By the way, do you realize that you have a martyr complex, Watson?" asked the consulting detective.

"What? No. Who said any thing about that?" sputtered the former soldier.

"Well, surely your therapist should have told you."

"What therapist? What makes you think I have a therapist?"

"With a psychosomatic limp, of course you have a therapist," replied the consulting detective.

"How? How are you doing that?" asked John.

"Can we stay on point here?" demanded a stern Lestrade. "Save all that other stuff for later. Who are you going to shoot? And give me one reason why I shouldn't clap you in handcuffs right now,"

"Because I'm here warning you guys! Look, I don't want to shoot anyone. I'm _not going_ to shoot anyone! I returned from the war a couple of months ago. Wait, let me start over. I was minding my own business this morning, when I ran into Colonel Moran. At the time, I thought it was by chance, now I guess that he had been waiting to ambush me. I mean it's obvious; I was set up," said the blond, pinching the bridge of his nose. The Colonel and his crazy boss wanted to use him to commit murder and not only that, the mad Irishman wanted to use John for sex…It was all so humiliating.

The stress of the day finally caught up to him. He sighed and gazed unfocused at the opposite wall, trying to regain his train of thought. But thinking was suddenly very hard…

"…are you paying attention, John Watson?" asked Sherlock.

The blond had gone very still and very pale. Blinking his dark blue eyes, John finally returned his gaze back to the consulting detective. "Um, what?" he said, trying to concentrate.

Sherlock bounced up from his chair, and called out, "Donovan, Anderson make yourselves useful and bring some coffee. This man is on the verge of shock."

The Donovan protested immediately.

"Just do it, please," requested the grey-haired detective inspector. Sherlock was right, the man's color was ashen and his left hand trembled. Heck, Watson's eyes seemed a bit glazed. Lestrade belatedly recalled that this guy had been beaten up earlier today.

"No. I'm fine. Not on the verge of shock," denied the blond soldier, sitting up as if at attention. "I'm fine," he repeated, forcing his eyes open wide, looking like a blue-eyed tawny owl.

"You may be a doctor, but as is common, you ignore your own symptoms," replied the younger man. "You're still recovering from a serious war injury. In one day, you've been betrayed by a fellow officer, physically assaulted, pressed into some assassination plot and you believe that your death is imminent. Of course you're in shock."

"No, wait. How can you know I'm a doctor? How is he doing this?" John appealed to Lestrade, who reached for the pot of coffee supplied by the sulking Donovan. Her ferret-faced companion carried in the cups. Sherlock grabbed the first cup of coffee and poured three packets of sugar into it.

"Simple observations, I deduced your former occupation from simple observations. Now drink this coffee," said Sherlock, handing the sugar-laden coffee to the haggard blond.

John shook his head, "No, thank you, I don't take sugar."

"Tonight, you will drink coffee with sugar. You will drink coffee with lots of sugar until color returns to your face, Doctor," insisted the World's only Consulting Detective.

Lestrade gaped at the younger man. Sherlock Holmes was concerned for another person, and an absolute stranger at that? The sociopath actually noticed another man's distress and felt the need to help? The older detective dry scrubbed his face and made himself a cup of coffee, before he went into shock himself.

"Lestrade, can I use your phone? I lost mine in that pointless chase earlier." asked the consulting detective. "And I hope you have not neglected to arrest the barista."

"Sorry, battery's dead," apologized the detective inspector. "And I have someone taking care of the barista."

The tall, younger man pouted in disappointment.

"Here, use mine," offered John Watson.

"Really?" asked Sherlock, surprised.

John handed the sexy nutter his phone. Wait. What? He can't be sexy; he's a man. Sure, he's sophisticated and yes, good looking, but not, definitely _no_t, sexy. John frowned at the path his thoughts had taken.

The consulting detective was, thankfully, unaware of the identity crisis occurring in the older blond, as he texted on John's mobile phone.

John sipped at his coffee, wrinkling his nose at the sickly, sweet taste. He had to admit, at least to himself, that he had been feeling a bit dizzy for the last twenty minutes. Well of course he was a bit dizzy. It was all due to that weird, whirlwind consulting nutter. That definitely-not-sexy, consulting nutter was just confusing, that's all.

Sherlock in an uncharacteristic fit of patience waited until the handsome blond finished his coffee, and at least a hint of pink entered his slightly stubbled cheeks.

Sherlock blinked in surprise. He did not just think that, did he? Did he really think that the former soldier was handsome?

"OK, so my former Colonel, Sebastian Moran, just happened to stop me in the park," said John.

"You walk there everyday, same time, same place. As regular as clockwork," muttered the consulting detective still annoyed with his apparent mental dysfunction.

John raised his eyebrows, "Obvious, you are a former army officer, invalided home," said Sherlock from behind his steepled hands. "You liked the army; you didn't want to leave. You will have kept up old army habits, which will include maintaining a rigid schedule. It will have been easy to predict your movements. Continue."

"That's just amazing," said John. Sherlock looked up, startled. "What you do there, the deducing. It's brilliant," continued the former soldier.

The consulting detective glanced sideways, expecting that he was being teased as usual. His own cheeks took on a faint, rosy glow when he realized that the former soldier was sincere. DI Lestrade surreptitiously used his phone to snap the never before seen blush on Sherlock's face.

"So then the Colonel bought me a coffee, no sugar," added John, with a pointed glance at the younger man. "We talked about how hard it is for veterans to get jobs. I talked about how I couldn't work as a surgeon anymore…"

"Yes, yes, because of your tremor and your psychosomatic limp, go on," urged Sherlock.

John huffed with impatience, but continued, "He said he thought he might know someone who could use a man like me. I should have known better. I knew that I shouldn't trust him. Moran was dismissed the army, dishonorable discharge. I'm not exactly sure why they threw him out, but I knew the man well enough to knoe better. He lies. He cheats. He steals. He uses people. He hurts people,"

"He hurt you?" said Sherlock angrily. Was this protectiveness and jealously? No surely not.

"Nooo," said the older man pursing his lips. "Well, I suppose he did punch me, but it's not the first time. Usually I can give as good as I get. It's just I couldn't exactly punch him back today, not with his Sig in my face. And anyway, I had to wait until I, well until…" John licked his lips.

"Until after you made sure that the intended victim was safe," said the consulting detective with a deep frown. "Afterwards you fully intend to track down your Colonel and fight him although you feel that you are unlikely to survive such an encounter. Martyr complex."

"Look here, Watson. No vigil antes while I'm in charge," sputtered the Detective Inspector Lestrade.

"Of course not," said John Watson tilting his head and giving Lestrade a false smile of reassurance. John's forehead was deeply creased with displeasure as he turned to glower at the not-sexy, despite your cheekbones, consulting detective.

"Of course, no vigil antes. I'm turning all of this over to the police, like a good citizen." He flashed his fake smile again. "Anyway, I'm getting ahead of myself. So at the park, the Colonel kept on about this rich businessman needing a personal assistant and a bodyguard. I agreed to a job interview even though I knew Moran had to be up to something," continued John, frowning at the consulting detective before he could interrupt again.

Sherlock looked askance, but pressed his lips together and did not interrupt.

"So the Colonel, called for his car, a limo. Shortly, after we got in, he blindfolded me…"

"How?" asked the consulting detective. "After all, you do not seem the type to give in easily."

"He must have drugged my coffee. First I was woozy, then very dizzy. When he put the blindfold on me, I couldn't fight back. I couldn't even move my arms. Then I must have passed out. When I woke up, I found myself handcuffed and blindfolded."

"You were unconscious how long?"

"I have no idea, maybe an hour?" guessed John.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in disapproval.

"Eventually, Moran brought me to underground office. I could hear when we entered a parking garage, because the sounds echoed. And we went round and round but always downhill. It made me pretty nauseous," John chewed the inside of his lip. "When the car stopped, he pulled me out and we walked a short distance. I was still blindfolded and a bit unsteady. It smelled dank, like a basement until we got into the office. That was very clean and smelled like beeswax. The Colonel removed the cuffs and the blindfold once we got into the office was very modern, very minimalist. Black canvases on the walls were meant to be artwork. There were black marble tabletops, but everything else was white. Except the red roses on the table."

"How many?" asked Sherlock, jumping up to pace in the small office.

"How many what?"

"How many roses," snapped the consulting detective.

"I have no idea," responded John his brow furrowed in confusion. "Does it matter?"

"I have no idea," parroted the consulting detective arrogantly.

John looked away with a tiny grin playing about his lips. "Well, then this madman came in, a crazy Irishman. He basically said, um, well, he said lots of stuff that doesn't matter now and it didn't really make much sense anyway," said John blushing.

"_Then _he said that I he wanted me to do a hit for him, and Sebby, meaning the Colonel, had to explain it all to me. He said if I did the job I'd be rewarded with um, stuff, and if I didn't I'd die," finished the former soldier.

"He tried to seduce you. You did not welcome his advances. Perhaps because you deny your homosexual tendencies, more likely because he offended your sense of honor. Your so-called reward would naturally be his sexual favors. He kissed you and you allowed it, because you felt this noble need to warn the unsuspecting and no doubt unworthy target. After which, you would be free to sacrifice yourself in the name of said honor."

John sat looking straight ahead, his cheeks flaming.

"He kissed you, bit your lip viscously, and hit you at least once, probably more than once but the bruising is not severe. The other darker, and no doubt very painful, contusion on your jaw is from your Colonel, who is bigger and taller than either you or the businessman who has no name. Do you know his name? No clearly not. So your Colonel hit you? Why did he hit you, after he just hired you? He should have viewed you as his ally or his subaltern. But no, he turned on you because... he jealous? Yes, jealous of the Irishman's attentions toward you."

Sherlock leaned forward, concern marking his face again, "Did they hurt you anywhere else? Would you like to see a doctor?"

"No," snapped John, his cheeks incandescent with shame. "No they didn't hurt me aside from some very minor bruising, and as you noted, I am a doctor. I certainly don't want to see a doctor for it," the former army captain spit out each bitter word.

"Did your Colonel tell you who the target is or when…" began the younger man.

"He's _not_ _my_ Colonel," barked John Watson, "He's The Colonel or the Former Colonel or Colonel Moran or even just Moran. But he is definitely. Not. _My_ Colonel. And do you really think I'm stupid or something? Why the bloody hell would I come here tonight without knowing the details!"

The older blond jumped up and pushed past Sherlock to start his own pacing, his tapping cane signaling his agitation. He ran his fingers through his short hair. He pivoted and stared at both Lestrade and Holmes with dark, indigo eyes. "Maybe I'm willing to die, due to my _martyr complex_, but I certainly wouldn't sacrifice myself for nothing, for fuck's sake."

"OK, Mr. Watson…" said Lestrade.

"Dr. Watson," corrected Sherlock.

"Dr. Watson, then," snapped Lestrade glaring at the lanky consulting detective. "then tell us the details. Unless this is some elaborate set-up to extract favors." The Detective Inspector turned his scowl toward John Watson.

John glared back, deeply insulted. "On Wednesday, tomorrow, there's to be some big to-do at the residence of some Count Whos-it. I didn't get the name because I was busy getting punched," The former army captain licked his lips. This was not supposed to be this hard. He was turning assassins over to the police. Men who wanted to use John Watson as a murder weapon. Hell, one of the men had even promised to use John as a… as a slut, as a fucking prostitute. So why was he choking on the words.

Christ, his mouth was dry and it was suddenly hard to swallow. He felt filthy in front of the scowling detective and especially that posh consulting detective.

That was it. He was ashamed. He felt like a leper, he was unclean. He was filthy because of his association with the Colonel and his boss. Well, that's too bad, I still have to reveal the plot, even though the detectives will probably despise me, thought John steeling himself.

And why does it matter what that tall nutter thinks. It's not as though I would have had a chance with him? Oh God, not again, these crushes never work out. I'm not interested, not going there. Hell, I'm not even really gay.

John continued, trying to keep the stress out of his voice. "A rifle is supposed to be waiting for me in my bed-sit. I haven't even been back to check. Tomorrow morning, I'm supposed to go out and test it. They have an old estate picked out where I can safely fire test fire the gun. I'm supposed to check the gun's sight and practice for a bit. After an hour, they'll send the back taxi for me," said John.

"Then the cab will drop me off at this empty house near that Count's townhouse or whatever. I'm supposed to go in through the unlocked backdoor and go up to the attic. There is a window facing east. I spot my mark exiting his limo at 1730 hours and, the sun will be behind me. Hopefully the buildings will block any wind and hopefully it won't be foggy. Assuming he steps out of his car, I take the shot. They want a headshot. Then, I'm to make my escape out the back."

"Why you? And why would they even trust you?" asked Lestrade.

"Well, they need a marksman, it's a long-range shot, nearly 1450 meters, according to the Colonel. There'll be lots of people, and it's a moving target. That pretty much narrows down the list of qualified applicants. I suppose they think that they I'll do it to save my life and for the 20,000 pounds Moran offered."

"Then too, the Colonel knows I'm experienced," now they'll hate me. Just wait, that posh guy will turn up his nose in disgust. Hell, I don't blame him. "Look I can't tell you anymore than that. I was in the army and I've had experience with, um, well I unofficially eliminated some enemies with a sniper rifle."

Oddly, the pale consulting detective was leaning close, intent on John's every word. He almost looked enthralled rather than disgusted. Suddenly, it was too hot in the room. John really wanted to remove his jacket.

"Right. Well, my guess is that they chose me, because they don't want to risk Moran. I figure I'm expendable. I mean, they can't possibly trust me in the long run, can they? They must be planning to kill me afterwards. Maybe that whole," John's lips tightened. Then he snarled, "Maybe that whole kissing thing, you know, the seduction thing that you magically figured out, Mr. Genius. Well, maybe, it was all a set up to make me think I have a chance to live through this. God knows I'm just a plain, ordinary looking guy. Hell, I'm over the hill and disabled to boot. Why would a handsome, rich businessman fancy me? The crazy bastard wasn't really interested in me at all; it was just a game. Yeah, that has to be the explanation. It was all an act to catch me off my guard," said John, suddenly relieved. At least the whole 'let's rape John' thing was off the table. He sat down heavily, feeling dizzy with relief.

Sherlock sat back in the chair, his hands in front of his face as if he was praying. So, the businessman is handsome. Did the little blond find him attractive? The idea was repugnant. The former soldier-_the_ _assassin_-deserved someone better. He deserved someone that wouldn't hit him and use him.

"OK, you gave me when and how. I need to know exactly where and more importantly who?" asked Lestrade who had begun taking notes.

"Here's what he gave me," said John handing the detectives a large folded envelope. "inside are the addresses of the empty house and the Count's residence. Moran handed me pictures of the cars that the target would most likely use, along with their license plate numbers. Here's pictures of the man; they gave me pictures but not his name. Which is stupid, surely they know I could find out his name if I wanted to. Maybe they don't care, as long as I do the job. Which I am not, by the way"

"He's supposedly some minor official in the British Government," John rushed to finish the sordid tale. "The Colonel says he's guilty of causing the deaths of countless soldiers. That's supposed to motivate me. For all I know, it could be true. If it is, I hope he gets his comeuppance someday, but it won't be from me. Not like this; not with a L1153A." John finished with a sigh, leaning his head in his hands. He had given them everything he had.

Hopefully, they would release him soon. Then he could take his chances on the street. Probably the Colonel had followed him. He's probably out there somewhere, just waiting for me. And I'll probably never even see it coming.

**A/N** Thank you to InuChimera7410, ruvy91, power0girl, Wicked Winter, AiLovesS for reviewing chapter 1.

**Disclaimer**-I do not own the rights to Sherlock Holmes or any character associated with the books by Sir ACD or the show on the BBC.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Greg Lestrade and Sherlock Holmes had each put on nitrile gloves to prevent leaving fingerprints, and each held a picture in his hand.

"It's Mycroft," Sherlock muttered, locking eyes with the ashen-faced detective inspector. "They're all pictures of Mycroft."

"What?" asked John not even looking up. Sherlock strode over and roughly grabbed the former soldiers square jaw. He yanked it up, his icy blue eyes boring into John's blazing azure eyes.

"You know exactly who this is! You specifically came to us because you know of our connection to him. Why? What do you want?" demanded the consulting detective angrily. He had almost liked this little blond. As usual, feelings were a liability.

"No," said John, glaring up, his gaze thunderous under his lowered brows. The tall mans grip on the soldier's bruised jaw was extremely painful, but John steeled himself, refusing to exhibit any distress.

"Oh, sorry, what I should ask is, what does your _master_ want from us," said Sherlock. Lestrade was out in the main office, muttering rapidly into a phone and gesturing to Donovan and Anderson.

The former army captain's hands flew up, striking the consulting detective's forearms and breaking his hold. John forcefully pushed the taller man back.

"I don't know who the mark is," barked John, bracing for an attack. "I don't know what the crazy Irishman wants, other than to kill the mark and ruin my life. And I didn't come here to see you or that DI! I was actually sent up here to see that idiot Donovan because I idiotically thought that I should try to warn the police about the assassination plans! You and the DI came out to talk to me on your own. You just happened to be here when I…"

"I don't believe in coincidences, Doctor," spat the pale detective, his eyes narrowed.

"Well then maybe it was fate that brought us together," snarled John. "Maybe you were born just so you'd be here tonight to help ruin my life. Just for the hell of it, why don't you fill me in on who the mark is and who you are." John huffed and moved closer to the door, with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

Sherlock tilted his head. The little blond was obviously furious. His mouth was slightly parted and his fists were clenched. His dark blue eyes stared directly into Sherlock's eyes.

The ex-soldier did not look to the side as he would if he were lying. He did not fidget; In fact, he did not now show any of the usual tells of liars, although he had showed almost all of them when he falsely denied being assaulted.

Awkward. I've verbally assaulted a war veteran who has put himself at risk for my brother. Sherlock noted that new bruises were forming on the shorter man's chin. Addendum, I also physically assaulted the man. I have wronged an innocent man.

Lestrade burst back into his office. "I'm taking you into custody Watson. You are looking at a very, very long prison sentence…."

John stopped listening. Prison. Cells. Lockdown. Beatings. Torture. Rape. No.

End of the line, Watson. Time to get off the train.

John's face was a blank mask. He and Lestrade both ignored the protests of the younger man. THe former soldier held out his hands for the cuffs. When the detective inspector reached for his arm, John grabbed the older man's wrist, twisted it and then shoved him into the elegant young consulting detective.

The ex- soldier ran out into the bullpen. Too late, John saw that the main entrance had filled with dark-suited bodyguards and the mark himself, a tall thin ginger with a tailored three-piece suit. He and his bodyguards blocked the blond's escape. John pivoted and darting into the far corner.

End of the line. John's pulled his handgun out from his waistband. Seemingly in one motion, he snapped the safety off and slapped back the slide. The ginger's protection unit was spastically trying to protect the mark. John shook his head disapprovingly. The ginger would already be dead, if John had actually wanted the man dead.

John put the barrel of the gun into his mouth; he looked up trying to ignore all the shouting and the grimy, yellowing ceiling panels. The last thing John Watson would see on earth was a filthy, fly-specked ceiling. What a way to go.

Why couldn't he have just died when he was shot? The ex-soldier tried to recall the bone chilling and dusty winds, distant snow-capped mountains and a sky of blue-black velvet, studded with stars like jewels. His trigger finger tightened.

"I'm sorry," said a baritone voice, interrupting John's meditation. The ceiling tiles returned to view.

"I said, I'm sorry. I do not like to repeat myself, and I never apologize, except tonight of course. So I'll repeat, I'm sorry."

John could not ignore that deep voice. His concentration was broken now. Well, fuck the Afghan sky and the fuck the wind too, thought the former army captain.

John's eyes slid down to focus on the silvery eyes of the consulting detective, who bit his lip in uncertainty, making himself look improbably young.

Sherlock finally felt his stomach unclench when the blond's trigger finger began to relax. Those ridiculously bright blue eyes did not waver, neither did the hand holding the gun. Still, he had recaptured the attention of the clearly unstable and very unpredictable little blond. "You see, I do regret over reacting. I lost my temper and doubted you, wrongly. The man you were hired to kill is my brother Mycroft and while he is my arch-enemy, it would appear that I am not entirely immune to sentiment."

"Hmm?" said John. He was having trouble understanding exactly what the younger man was on about. Also, John had always found that it is hard to respond intelligibly, when you have the barrel of a gun in your mouth. Not that he made a habit of putting guns in his mouth, but shite happens.

"Sherlock, get away from him, right now. We have experts, counselors who can talk to him," said Lestrade, standing protectively in front of Mycroft.

Counselors, huh? Been there, done that. A counselor was almost as bad a prison cell.  
John scanned the room. Pretty much everyone in the room except that consulting detective and his brother, the ginger mark, had a gun pointed at John. Well, good on them. They can finish me off if I miss my shot, thought John darkly. He tried to scowl but it was also hard to scowl properly with the damned gun in his mouth.

"Yes, regrettably, that fat cow is my brother Mycroft. Of course he would make an easy target if you were so inclined, which of course you are not," the handsome detective chatted on. "By the way, my name is Holmes, Sherlock Holmes."

The taller brunet stuck his hand out. John suddenly felt self-conscious and rude. He whipped the gun out of his mouth, stuck it in his left hand and pointed it at the side of his head. He shook Sherlock's hand feeling more than a little confused. He was supposed to be ending it all. Well, he still could but it would be a lot harder now. At least the stupid nasty tasting gun was out of his mouth, and he could scowl and talk properly.

"Sherlock? What kind of parent names a baby, 'Sherlock'? Or 'Mycroft' for that matter," asked John, his eyes shifting between Sherlock and huddle of bodyguards and cops around Mycroft. The exit was still completely blocked.

He noted that only Donovan had lowered her gun although she still watched him closely. Apparently she alone, other than Sherlock, realized that John was not a threat, other than to himself, of course.

"I wasn't seeking your approval for my name," sniffed the tall man finally, his dark curls dancing over his forehead.

"Oh, no? Well, I approve whole-heartedly. Sherlock suits you just fine," said John, he could scowl now, but didn't want to. "I just can't imagine someone being handed a beautiful little boy with a head full of soft black curls and naming the innocent little baby, 'Sherlock'." John felt a hot flush rising when he realized that he might, maybe have said too much. Soft black curls? Really Watson?

Sherlock smirked, but only said, "My parents were proud and wanted distinguished names for their sons."

"You mean your parents were arrogant and chose pompous names to impress the neighbors," corrected John.

Sherlock's smirk threatened to become a grin. He quashed it down. This was a serious situation. Mycroft was threatened and this man's life was at stake. For some reason, Sherlock felt that the ex-soldier needed his help more than Mycroft.

"You know you could surrender your gun to me," suggested the consulting detective. I won't let them jail you."

"Mr. Holmes," began John.

"Please, call me Sherlock."

"Fine, I'm John, as you already know. Anyway, Sherlock, your friend the detective inspector…

"He's not my friend. I don't have friends."

"I wonder why? Maybe it's to do with you interrupting all the…"

"I only corrected your inaccuracy. I don't need friends."

"Sherlock!" yelled John. The anxious murmuring in the room ceased abruptly.

"Well, that didn't take long," said Mycroft drily, mostly hidden from view by Lestrade, who stubbornly refused to move out of the taller man's way. "Sherlock, you never did play well with others. Now, Dr. Watson, this whole situation can be salvaged. It appears, that as soon as your alleged kidnappers released you, you voluntarily came straight to the police to warn them, and by extension, me. That speaks in your favor, Doctor."

"He's as pompous as his name," muttered John quietly to the tall man who was now standing within arms reach.

"You have no idea," said Sherlock, looking grave.

"Dr. Watson!" said Mycroft sharply, pushing Lestrade to one side. "Do me the courtesy of paying attention. You have nothing to lose by surrendering. Sherlock, really, could you stop staring like that. In fact, I would like you to come over here with us."

Sherlock had tilted his head; he focused on a nondescript brown-haired man, one of Mycroft's minions. The man's gun was no longer pointed at John Watson. It was pointing at Mycroft. The guards next to him were looking stupidly at his gun and doing nothing. Idiots.

"John," whispered Sherlock, "the brown-haired man to the left, can you take him out? Now!"

John snapped his attention to the left. A brunet with a thin mustache was aiming his gun at the pompous politician. John shoved the taller man off to the side. He pointed and fired, the bullet hitting the man's hand and passing into his abdomen.

The bodyguards erupted. Several fired at John. John dove away from Sherlock, to draw any fire away from the crazy detective.

A couple fired at the downed bodyguard. Lestrade had tackled Mycroft to the floor and covered him with his body.

When the gunfire ended, Donovan, Lestrade, Sherlock and Mycroft were each frantically shouting their own versions of 'hold your fire'.

"John Watson, are you hurt?" demanded Sherlock.

"Come away at once, Sherlock. That man is a homicidal maniac," ordered Mycroft Holmes, once he got Lestrade off of him. "For God's sake, he just murdered on of my guards."

"Do catch up, Mycroft. Dr. Watson just saved your fat arse. Your minion was preparing to kill you," shouted the consulting detective, his deep voice dripping with contempt .

Sherlock knelt down to where John had crashed. There was a small graze along the doctor's shoulder that was seeping blood. However, John was more concerned with a large knot on his head, caused when a chair landed on top of him.

"Can you stand?" asked Sherlock.

"Of course I can stand," snapped John angrily. "The question is, should I stand? Won't those trigger-happy idiots start firing again if I get up? Don't give me that look, Sherlock Holmes. The way they shoot, you're more likely to get hit than me."

"We'll take our chances. I want to get you back in Lestrade's office and away from this commotion. I'd like to take a look at your new injuries. You seem very prone to injuries, Doctor," said Sherlock.

Lestrade and one of Mycroft's minions were advancing on John's position, their guns drawn.

"Stay back. He's taken me hostage," warned Sherlock. Everyone froze.

"WHAT?" whispered John loudly. "No. No I didn't…" The consulting detective's eyes were glacial in their condemnation of the idiot bleeding on the floor. "Um, I mean…Yeah, he's my hostage," called John.

'It works for me, I guess," muttered the doctor.

John rose slowly and pointed the gun at the crazy man with the razor-sharp cheekbones.

"Oh let them go, Greg. They can't get into any trouble in your office. According to my _former _security chief, it seems my security detail was…lax. That man was indeed about to shoot at me or possibly at you," Mycroft and Greg exchanged worried glances, each reacting to the thought of losing the other. "Apparently, some of the team saw this but were unable to neutralize the threat. It seems I owe you my gratitude, Dr. Watson."

"Um, it was Sherlock's idea. He saw the mole aiming at you. I just followed his orders, um, I mean his suggestions," said John. "Look, should I keep pointing this gun at you or not?" he asked the younger man.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the shorter blond and grabbed his elbow, "Come on John, in the office. When you can be civil, you and Mycroft can join us," he added to Lestrade.

"I hope this isn't an indication of how you usually function, John Watson. I concede that you are a crack shot. However, you really didn't pick up on the rogue guard until the last second and only after I pointed it out. You also didn't seem to comprehend my prompt about taking me hostage," said the consulting detective, as he guided the blond into Lestrade's office while pressing his handkerchief onto John's bleeding shoulder.

John grumbled under his breath, but the consulting detective ignored him. Sherlock turned to slam the door in Lestrade's face.

"That's just creepy," said Sergeant Donovan, pushing hair away from her face. "Why is freak being so nice to that guy?"

"Maybe it's all an act. You know, to trick that doctor into doing something," suggested Anderson, who reappeared now that the danger was past.

"Actually, I would like to find out what Sherlock is up to as well," said Mycroft, smoothing down the front of his suit.

"Sergeant Donovan, you'll find that my PA has secured this floor. No one enters; no one leaves. Everything that has happened since the arrival of Dr. Watson is a State secret. Anyone who leaks any information about the affair tonight will be considered guilty of high treason. See that any of your officers or detectives or" here he looked down at Anderson, "or whatever he is, see that they understand the rules will you?"

"Gregory, let's find out what my brother is up to, shall we," Mycroft knocked on the off-chance that John Watson still had his gun out.

He entered only after his brother rudely yelled, "Well, enter if you must."

**A/N** It's a short chapter, but a short chapter is better than no chapter. At least I hope so.

**Thank you** to everyone who reviewed including foxeeflame, power0girl, MapleleafCameo, Samuele8688, ruvy91,Wicked Winter, Chisika, AiLoveS and Guest.

**Disclaimer**- I don't own the rights to Sherlock whether from the books, movies or telly. This is just for fun, and no one makes a penny off of it.


	4. Chapter 4

_Previously:_

_"Gregory, let's find out what my brother is up to, shall we?" Mycroft knocked, on the off-chance that John Watson still had his gun out._

_He entered after his brother rudely yelled, "Well, enter if you __must."_

**The Marksman Chapter 4**

"That will be my brother," said Sherlock. "John, do put your gun away; it will just make the others nervous."

John sat in a chair, while Sherlock pressed the handkerchief against the soldier's flesh-wound. "I'm not sure.." began the blond.

John paused to watch Mycroft Holmes glide in like a vampire. Holmes senior, (he was obviously the older brother, by several years), was followed by Lestrade. The DI glared nervously at John, who was still holding the gun.

"Shut the door, Gregory," instructed Mycroft, pointedly ignoring the gun.

John looked up at the consulting detective who had somehow become John's ally. Sherlock raised a questioning eyebrow.

John's eyes widened in doubt and then gave his tilted head a little shake for emphasis. The former soldier gripped his gun tighter. He did not want to let go of the Browning.

Sherlock nodded his reassurance.

John looked back at the politician and the detective inspector, and then he lowered his brows in a fierce scowl. Still, if this Sherlock said it was alright…Pursing his lips, John flipped on the Browning's safety and slipped the gun into his waistband.

Lestrade gaped at this silent exchange between the normally aloof consulting detective and the apparently hostile former soldier.

Mycroft pressed his lips together, unsure. It seemed that his little brother, the self-diagnosed sociopath, had reached some sort of understanding with this virtual stranger. Mycroft did not understand it; therefore, it was unsettling.

"Doctor Watson, I propose that we restart from the very beginning," said Mycroft slowly.

John instantly looked to Sherlock, his lips parted in silent protest. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Mycroft, you know that I can not abide repetition," said Sherlock. "And John is both hurt and exhausted. I suspect that he and I will both die of exhaustion and boredom respectively if we "restart from the very beginning". Now stop being tedious."

Now that John's right hand was free, he took over the application of pressure over his wound. Nevertheless, Sherlock maintained his post, next to the older man.

"Mycroft, you wish to make an offer to John. He will refuse on principle. You will insist. He will become angry. You will threaten him. He will try to escape again. People will get hurt. John will die trying to escape, or, should he succeed, he will die at the hands of his former Colonel. It's all a stupid and odious waste of time."

Sherlock sighed at the tedium but remained looming protectively over the former army doctor, who in turn looked angry already. John's forehead creased heavily with his dismay, and his lips pressed tightly together in a frown.

"Oh well done, Sherlock. You've managed to frighten and alienate the doctor already," said Mycroft irritated.

"No. What offer?" John asked Mycroft. "And how do _you_ know I'll refuse?" he demanded of Sherlock, as he made to stand up.

Sherlock's large, pale hand pressed him back down into Lestrade's cushioned chair. "Sit down, John. You are tired and injured. You will be on the verge of collapse again, if you do not take care."

"So, you're claiming to be a doctor on top of everything else?" asked Dr. Watson waspishly. "And will you please stop pushing me down, already. I'm sitting, aren't I? Now what offer?"

"My brother, Mycroft, will offer you more money than Moran and his boss, if you will follow through with the assassination tomorrow," said the consulting detective.

"No. Absolutely not," snapped John.

"And you just refused on principal," said Sherlock softly.

"Damn right I refused! Are you all mad? He's right, isn't he?" John demanded of Mycroft standing. "You were going to offer me money to kill you. You're all insane completely bonkers."

"Sherlock, stop showing off for the doctor!" ordered Mycroft sharply. "Dr. Watson sit back down!"

John sat down heavily, startled and a bit overwhelmed. He reflexively fingered the Browning for comfort.

Sherlock drew himself up and glared daggers at his archenemy, Mycroft Holmes.

"Mycroft, you and Sherlock have to stop this pointless bickering," interrupted Lestrade, whose own face was ashen, now. What the hell was all this talk of shooting Mycroft, for God's sake, thought the detective inspector.

"Look," continued Lestrade. "This man is dangerous. He just killed one of your men, Mycroft."

"No, I didn't," said John woodenly.

"I was there; you shot him in cold blood," Lestrade practically yelled.

"I shot him. I did not kill him," John ground out. "I fired a single round at his hand; the round probably continued to his abdomen. However, neither wound would have been instantly fatal. My round disabled him. Your lot killed him after he was already down."

"Christ, ask your idiot forensics git, Andrews or whatever his name is. He could probably tell you. And you might try to remember that the poor dead man was preparing to shoot _him_." John waved his bloody handkerchief at Mycroft. "And the next time someone points a gun at your boyfriend, you can be bloody sure that I won't do a bloody thing to stop them, if this is the thanks I get," John huffed and glared at the wall.

"Oh, well done John," said Sherlock with a lopsided smile. "The idiot's name is Anderson, but that hardly matters. How did you know they're boyfriends?"

John huffed again. "I'm not blind or deaf, ya' know? That detective inspector has been tweeking out ever since he found out that my mark was your brother. And he's been positioning himself between me and Mr. Holmes. As if that would've protected the mark, if I actually _wanted_ to shoot him," John finished with a mutter.

"Excellent, John," said Sherlock, practically skipping to the door. "Anderson! How many rounds hit the dead would-be-assassin?" Sherlock looked back out of the corner of his eyes to be sure that Lestrade was paying attention.

"Show some respect to the dead, Freak," answered Anderson. "Six bullet wounds, two to the head. Both of those were at point blank range instantly fatal. Two to the chest, both also would have been fatal. There was one round each to the right hand and lower abdomen, the last one being superficial…"

Sherlock slammed the door in Anderson's face. John frowned at the consulting detective and shook his head slightly.

Sherlock frowned too, realizing that the doctor was displeased with his rudeness, but he paused for only a second, "As John said, he disarmed and disabled the assassin. No doubt, your minion was hired by the same man who tried to hire John. The hapless minion realized that his real boss's plan to use John had failed and was required to attempt to kill you himself. Had your minions and the police kept their heads, we would have had a wounded yet conscious suspect available for questioning. I'm sure he would have confessed quickly, especially if John and I were to have done the questioning. Now you will want to proceed with your much riskier plan."

"Actually, Sherlock, the plan should work quite well. I will not be in any real danger," said Mycroft, more to Lestrade than to Sherlock.

"I'm not referring to you, Mycroft," said the consulting detective in disgust. "John will be in great danger, when you release him to the men who hired him. I feel that it is too dangerous for the doctor…"

"Stop. Everyone just stop. What? Plan?" demanded John furiously. "I haven't heard a single actual plan mentioned. Do you two read each other's minds or something? God, if you bicker telepathically, it must be hell inside your those big heads of yours."

"Don't be an idiot, John. There's no such thing as mind reading. I know my brother. I know the way his devious mind works. I can also see your talents, and therefore I can predict how he will he will try exploit them shamelessly to accomplish his goals.

"Mycroft plans to manipulate you into assassinating him tomorrow. He has recovered enough of your records to know that you are indeed a crack shot, or sniper if you will. So, you will shoot Mycroft, but not in the head. Oh no, my crafty brother will have you shoot him in the chest or back where he'll be protected by armor. He will pretend to die. Then he will force you back into the hands of Moran. My brother hopes that you will gain the trust of both Moran and his boss, once it appears to the world, that Mycroft has been killed. He wishes to use you as a double agent. But as I said, his plan is flawed. You have come here to the police voluntarily; you are compromised. Moran will find out, if he does not know already. Then he will kill you."

Mycroft began to smirk. Sherlock began to feel a frisson of worry; there was something that the consulting detective had overlooked. Best to utterly destroy this dangerous plot now.

"Even if they did trust you, initially, Moran is jealous, and he will still kill you over his boss' affections. Furthermore, you are not a good liar, in fact you are a terrible liar. You will be caught sooner, rather than later. No matter what, all paths inevitably lead to your death, doctor. It is fortunate that you did refuse on principal."

"No," said John.

"Precisely, John," agreed the young brunet, with smug satisfaction. "There, he said no, Mycroft. You'll have to cook up another plot."

"No, you're wrong. I did refuse on principal but now that you've explained it, I have to agree on principal," said the sniper, chewing on his lip. Mycroft did not bother to hide his own smug smile.

"You're an idiot! I just said that you'll die…" yelled Sherlock.

"But I might take them down first," said the former soldier, slowly and firmly. "They're a dangerous threat, and probably not just to me or your brother. I'm a soldier and an officer; I swore to protect Queen and country. So I have no choice."

"No, No, No! They didn't even threaten the real Queen, just my brother," said Sherlock furiously. He was angry at everyone, including himself. He had overlooked John's strong sense of honor and duty. There was always something...

"Sherlock," said John, shaking his head again.

"No, John. I won't stay around while you sacrifice yourself in the name of duty. Mycroft, this is nothing short of murder. You will sacrifice this man and gain nothing from it." Sherlock strode to the door. "John Watson, he is using you now, just as shamelessly as Moran tried to. I advise you to come with me at once."

John looked up, with wide blue eyes, at the tall, pale man in the doorway. He wanted to follow the consulting detective. John trusted Sherlock, and he did not trust that Mycroft at all.

But if there was any chance that John could aid in the capture of Moran and his psychopathic boss, then John had to take that chance. It was his duty.

Feeling inexplicably sad, the former soldier shook his head no, silently denying the handsome, younger man.

Sherlock turned away and stormed out of the office, only to be stopped by Mycroft's minions blocking the main exit.

"Mycroft!" bellowed the young consulting detective. With in moments, one of the guards received a text, and Sherlock was released. He rushed out, his long black coat flapping behind him.

**A/N **Thank you to all who are reading or following my story.

Special thanks to my reviewers: ruvy91, Wicked Winter, Kat, AiLoveS, SamuelE8688 and guests! I appreciate your comments, editing recommendations and encouragement.

**Disclaimer **You know the drill. I don't own the rights to anything remotely related to SHERLOCK including the books, TV shows and movies.

**Oh yeah, TBC, of course. :D**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N** Short chapter-John's pov

**The Marksman **

**Chapter 5**

.

After his release from the Yard, John only had to walk about a block before the black car pulled up. It seemed that his former superior officer kept close tabs on him. Touching really.

"Get in the car, you fucking snitch," Colonel Moran snarled. Well, not really touching so much as really spooky. The Colonel summarily dragged his one-time subordinate into the car.

In the end, John was not surprised when the large man wrestled him to the floor of the vehicle.

John fought as best he could, getting in a few good punches before the cuffs went on. The doctor went still when he felt the sharp, cold steel pricking his throat. Then the damn blindfold covered John's eyes; the last thing he saw were the rabid blue eyes of Sebastian Moran.

"You betrayed us, you fucking bastard," hissed Moran. "You went to the police…"

"Colonel, I'm really not that stupid," lied John. In fact, he was that stupid, wasn't he. The knifepoint pressed harder into the soft skin over his carotid artery. The knife must have broken the skin, because the ex-army doctor could feel the trickle of blood dripping down his throat. It left a cold trail on his skin.

"The police summoned me to Scotland Yard. I had to go," gasped John. "They kept me there for most of the night. They finally ticketed me for possession of an illegal handgun. The paperwork is all in my pocket, if you want to see it. Luckily, I only have to pay a fine and do community service." John was secretly impressed with how calm he sounded. Although, when the car hit a pothole and the knife slipped, his voice cracked, but only just a bit.

"But I bet you know all about this, don't you, Colonel? I bet you and your boss set me up for some reason. I guess you're trying to teach me a lesson or something," complained John indignantly. He hoped his lines didn't sound too rehearsed; he hoped that that wanker, Mycroft Holmes, was as clever as he thought he was.

Then The Colonel jabbed his cheek with the knife. Oh God, that stings. John grit his teeth, refusing to show how much it really hurt. I really, really should have listened to the younger brother, he thought frantically.

Then his former colonel dug in John's pockets pulling his wallet and keys and finally finding the police paperwork. Saying nothing, The Colonel shoved John away. John was wedged uncomfortably on the floor of the car for what seemed like forever. His bad shoulder throbbed, and his arms slowly went numb behind him.

The car slowed, as gravel crunched underneath the tires. The Colonel got out first, and then yanked out the smaller blond. Initially, John's right leg betrayed him, and he fell to his knees. John struggled to stand, swaying sightlessly.

Unable to use his vision, he focused on the warmth of the sun, the touch of the breeze and the smell of freshly mowed grass. He wondered, was this it? Would these be the last things he felt before he died.

Would the Colonel shoot him now? He straightened up, determined to die like a soldier.

Without warning, John's cuffs were unlocked and then the blindfold was ripped off his head. The former captain blinked painfully in the too bright sun. Moran was an ominous, blurry figure in front of him.

"Here," said the colonel. The blurry figure shoved a heavy leather case and a rucksack into John's nearly numb hands. Instinctively, John grabbed the case, letting the bag fall to the gravel.

"I'll admit that maybe we did set you up," lied Moran, thinking that his boss had done just that. It was the sort of thing his brilliant but erratic chief would do, after all. And as usual, he hadn't bothered to tell his so-called right hand man. "You deserved it for being such a chump. And it will teach you to follow orders," continued Moran.

The Colonel gave John a shove to start him moving, and the ex-captain followed the former commando, trying hard to hide his limp.  
The doctor was surprised that Moran had accepted his story so easily. Moreover, The Colonel even accepted that the Irishman might have set it up. That wanker, Mycroft, _was_ as smart as he claimed.

"You have until 1400 hours, Watson. Get to know your rifle and practice as much as you like. No one will hear you out here," said the tall, blond man fingering the long scar trailing down his face.

"Don't bother asking me any questions, and don't expect help from me. I still think it was a mistake for Mor…, for the Boss to hire you. But I follow orders and you better learn how to follow them too," growled Colonel Moran. "Don't screw up, the Boss is not a forgiving kind of man. This won't be like Afghanistan. You got away with not following orders, because you were doctor, but now everyone thinks you're just another useless gimp. You're nobody, except to M… the Boss. And don't you forget it. Don't even think of double-crossing us either; we've got our eyes on Harry," sneered the former colonel

Moran sauntered over to the car. "Like I said, don't screw up. The taxi will be here at 1400; you get to the house at 1600 and get the mark at 1700. The Boss wants you in the sewers at 1705."

Still, blinking, John watched the car drive off, clouds of dust spinning up from the tires. John inhaled the fresh breeze. It was clean out here in the country, so different than London. Everything was green and growing and beautiful.

And John was cast as the angel of death, with Harry's life hanging in the balance. Sod the scenery.

John wanted to scream in frustration. He was supposed to protect Harry, because he was the soldier. Now she was in danger because of her stupid little brother.

John rubbed his face. He hadn't made a single good decision in the last twenty-four hours; maybe he hadn't made a single good decision in the last twenty-four years. Maybe his entire life was a series of bad decisions, that left him barreling along until he reached this disastrous end.

Keep moving. That's all that's left; just use your training. Get the job done. Then find a way to kill the bastards. Despite his limp, he marched forward across the lawn and into the tall grass. He realized that that bastard, Moran, had taken his damn cane too.

Right, John had his orders. He had his orders from Sebastian Moran and from the mysterious Mor-whatever, and even from Mycroft Holmes. Contrary to Moran, John knew exactly how to follow orders. He just followed them his own way.

He had a little over an hour to make this rifle his own. He had to make sure that he knew this gun as well as he knew his right hand. He would only have one, maybe two shots, today.

Right. John stalked angrily out into the fields. He ignored the grass and wildflowers. He blocked out the birds, the clouds, the majestic manor house, where no doubt someone was spying on him.

Captain Watson assembled the rifle easily. It was a masterpiece of construction. Light weight, hand tooled and was it made of titanium? The precision instrument was worth a small fortune. When John attached the suppressor, a tight smile graced his lips.

He slipped on the expensive sunglasses that had been in the rucksack along with his wallet and keys. With his shades on, the meadow was much easier to see now.

The short soldier caressed the sleek, shining barrel. John fondly filled the magazine with five rounds and then slapped the loaded magazine into place. He looked through the day-sight with narrowed eyes. He finally lay down in the grass. He was only distantly aware of the sun beating down on his back. His thoughts now were on the gun and the target, which was a distant tree. He weighed the variables, adjusting for the warmth of the day and the wind speed and direction. John adjusted the bipod and checked the breeze again. As the sniper sighted his objective, he rested his cheek on the gun; it was warm and smooth like a lover's cheek

John was back in theater. For the first time since he was shot, John felt alive, and he held his beloved in his hands. He stroked the stock, then reached for the trigger. He waited patiently; completion was near.

John exhaled softly, slowly, silently; his mind was focused and sharp. Viewed through the cross hairs, John's world narrowed to the target and the trigger.

Time expanded exponentially. Do not breathe; wait for the pause between heartbeats… he squeezed the trigger gently, lovingly, pulling back with the ball of his finger. The rifle erupted, muffled by the suppressor. John savored the smell, no the taste of the gun-smoke. It was supremely satisfying.

John checked through the sight, he was off target by several inches. Disappointing. Unsatisfying. He would make this gun his own? Sod that. He would have to try harder, much harder. He prepared again.

"Yeah, it's alright luv, just give me another chance. We'll be perfect together," John whispered softly to his rifle. He readied for the next shot. He rested his cheek on the gun; it was warm and smooth like a lover's cheek…

**A/N** Thank you for reading this fic and please, please review. Your thoughts and comments and criticisms are supremely helpful to me.

My thanks go out to: ruvy91, Magpie09, SamuelE8688, power0girl, Ray, EJ 12212012, Guest, InuChimera7410 and another Guest (or maybe the same one :P) Thank you all for your reviews and comments!

**Disclaimer** I do not own the rights to Sherlock Holmes or SHERLOCK BBC.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Unable to withstand the torture and screaming in agony, the violin string snapped. The World's Only Consulting Detective nearly threw his priceless violin across the room in frustration. Taking a deep, calming breath, he carefully set the wounded instrument on the shelf. Then he swept the files and books off of his desk in an impressive fit of piqué.

Why did it matter! Why on earth did it matter, if another mindless idiot chose to let sentiments, like "honor" and "duty", rule his life. Why did it matter, if the idiot's idiotic choice resulted in his own pointless and idiotic death?

It did not matter. Not only did it not matter, to the six-foot tall man pacing frantically around his flat, there was nothing he could do about it even if he wanted to, which, of course, he did not.

No doubt the little blond was already dead by now. That sniper, Moran, probably shot the doctor as he was leaving the yard. The news of the mysterious and tragic demise of an army veteran had probably already been posted by the Internet news services. It's unfortunate…unfortunate for the ex-soldier.

But it does not matter to me; which is as it should be. I have no time or need for emotions. _Emotions_. The grease on the lenses. The fly in the ointment.

Fortunately, I am above such things as emotions. I have the work to sustain me and the music to entertain me.

And therein lies the problem. I need work. It's past time to close that last case and start work on a new one.

Sherlock dug through the debris on the floor, throwing unwanted papers every which way, until he found his mobile. He threw himself down on the couch and sent a text to Detective Inspector Lestrade:

**Did you arrest the barista? SH**

**We did. We started with a drugs bust. Aside from the Oxycontin, we found several recreational drugs. Donovan obtained her confession within an hour. GL**

**I could have gained the confession in fifteen minutes. SH**

**Yeah, but see, here in London, we have rules against torture. GL**

**But you have no problem leading innocents to the slaughter, so spare me your self-righteousness.**

**You forgot your initials. So I take it that it's bothering you? GL**

**Nothing is bothering me except that I am dying of boredom.**

**Right, you forgot your initials again. So I have a possible new case. GL**

**Does it involve the British Government? SH SH SH SH SH**

**Yes. GL**

**Then no. SH**

**You'd get access to Top Secret files. GL**

**NO. SH**

**And personal medical files. GL**

**Come on Sherlock, if you take the case, it will piss off my partner. You'd like that, wouldn't you? GL**

**Why would you risk his wrath? SH. **

**I think you have the best chance of tracking down the man who's hiring assassins to kill your brother. Maybe it's worth me sleeping on the couch for a few days to catch this guy. GL**

**That's not all of it. SH**

**No it isn't. This doctor is going to need help if he tries to spy on some kind of a crime boss and you know it. GL**

**Well? GL**

**Will you take the case? That doctor is an honorable guy. He deserves a chance. GL**

**It's been twenty minutes. The least you could do is answer. GL**

**You're a stubborn git and don't deserve to work with a decent bloke. GL**

"Lestrade, why are you sending me irrelevant and irritating texts when I'm right here!" snapped the consulting detective, flouncing into the DI's office and throwing himself into a chair.

Lestrade stood in surprise. Then, he smiled weakly. "So, you'll look into our case then?" asked the DI, getting up to shut the door.

"As long as you can refrain from spouting puerile sentiments about _honor and duty_, then yes. Give me the files," ordered the arrogant younger man.

"Help yourself. You haven't bothered to ask, but yes the _doctor's_ still alive," said Lestrade.

"Obviously, he's still alive," drawled the lanky brunet, slouching in a chair. "Don't tell me, you've turned into an absolute moron like Anderson. If the sniper was dead, you wouldn't ask me to review his files, and you wouldn't be fretting over my bother's stupid plot to fake his own death." The consulting detective glared with disdain at the older man.

Sherlock refrained from reporting his own unreasonable flood of relief when he had deduced this very fact for himself, thirty minutes ago.

The consulting detective read through the files on Watson, John H. Captain, RAMC. Sherlock flipped through the pages rapidly and muttered aloud. "Middle name Hamish. Father, retired army, alcoholic, deceased. Mother former nurse, deceased. One sister, Harry, short for Harriet. Financial analyst, financially well off. Been to rehab once for alcoholism. Divorced. Not a brother, a sister? It's always something. Trained at St. Bart's, deployed to Afghanistan not once but four times. First two tours, he was a simple field surgeon. Well, perhaps not simple, censured for disobeying orders on three separate occasions, so not a good army officer. Several commendations for bravery and dedication to duty, so maybe he's a good officer after all. And here's a memorable occasion. Lt. Watson rescued two wounded soldiers, simultaneously receiving a censure for insubordination and a commendation for bravery beyond the call of duty accompanied with a medal for heroism. More ribbons and medals awarded to our Lieutenant throughout his tours. Third tour interrupted early on for Sniper/Scout training-this can't be common, for doctors to receive sniper training, can it? Assignment to Team Anaconda, details redacted. More commendations and medals all details redacted! Promotion to Captain following another censure for failure to follow orders followed by another commendation. Details redacted again. Fourth tour of duty details, of course, REDACTED! This entire tour is redacted. Even his work in the field hospitals was redacted. Wounded in action, circumstances redacted. Hospitalized for two months following multiple surgeries and wound infection. PTSD details redacted!…These files are all but useless! What is the point of labeling files Top Secret, if they're empty? There's virtually nothing in them."

He glared at the photo of a younger, smiling, uniformed Captain Watson. He looked positively boyish in that picture. A picture of a young idiot who got himself shot and came back to London only to get himself in trouble. Still an idiot

Sherlock threw the meaningless files onto Lestrade's desk. He tilted his head and glared at the detective inspector his lips pressed together with frustration.

"Moran's files are even worse," said Lestrade, seemingly unfazed by the younger man's ire. "But you might as well have a look."

"Fine," Sherlock skimmed the files that were even thinner than Watson's. "Colonel Sebastian Moran, son of the late Sir Augustus Moran, CB. Educated at Eton and Oxford. Joined the military. Several deployments, served on and later led many special operations teams, his last being Team Anaconda. Several commendations, medals for bravery, censured for conduct unbecoming an officer twice, demoted once for conduct unbecoming to an officer, what does that even mean now a-days? Dishonorable discharge, all pertinent documentation related to the Colonel has been redacted. No current address..."

"Mycroft can't get more information than this? His minions are slipping," said the consulting detective, his voice dripping with contempt.

"Obviously Moran's teams were performing Top Secret special operations. Myc's minions, as you call them have tracked down a quite a few officers who will attest to Watson's excellent medical skills. And a few will even admit that he is, in fact, an excellent marksman. Watson's last two deployments were split between the field hospitals and Team Anaconda. No one admits knowing anything about Anaconda. And no one will discuss anything to do with Moran; they won't even admit that they know him."

Sherlock glared at Moran's official photo and then glared at Watson's photo, which he had nicked from one of the files. After all, he just might have need of Watson's photo at a later date.

"You know Sherlock, you should have stayed last night, instead of running off in a snit," continued Lestrade, putting his feet on his desk. He smirked at the younger man who looked like an affronted cat. "That sniper demonstrated his marksmanship on the gun range. Very, very impressive both with his handgun and with rifles. He was royally pissed off, by the way, when we confiscated his quite illegal gun. I was sure he was going to throw a punch at me. I'd say the guy has anger issues. Afterwards, we watched him leave via Myc's cameras," The detective inspector brought the CCTV footage up onto his computer. "Come and look. We saw a black car stop for him about a block away from here. The tags are false, by the way, and they'll probably change them again soon. So we can see this man pulling the doctor…"

"That is clearly Moran, he matches the photos from his file," said Sherlock hovering over Lestrade's shoulder to view his computer screen. "Same blond hair with a military cut. He and Watson might as well go to the same barber. He's sporting the same beard that he had in the army too. I suspect he misses the army as much as Watson does. He and Watson would actually make a dangerous team if they become allies again. However, he is not John's friend right now. He's clearly roughing up the little doctor. No doubt, he's jealous and surely resents John's seeming betrayal. How do you know that Moran didn't just take John Watson away and kill him," asked Sherlock cooly, ignoring the way his stomach writhed at the thought.

"Your brother's "minions" are not useless Sherlock," chided Lestrade. "They followed the car to a private estate. Moran left Watson at a derelict manor house, and then your new friend zeroed his weapon. Myc's agents reported that in the field, your doctor has nearly pinpoint accuracy at 1000 meters. Myc finds all that reassuring. Of course he's going ahead with his reckless scheme. Anyway, a taxi picked up the sniper and returned him to London. He's at that empty house, stationed in the attic with a gun pointing at all the dignitaries and celebrities as they leave their cars. If we're wrong about Watson..."

"Dammit, Sherlock!" Lestrade said loudly, pounding his desk. "Mycroft could be dead in the next hour. Those Army officers, who knew Watson, swear he's a fucking hero and all around nice guy. Hell, I even like the guy. But his military career is a mystery; he has PTSD and an intermittent tremor in his left hand. They won't let him do surgery because of that tremor, and now we're letting him point a rifle at innocent people. Hell, we're going to let him point a rifle at my partner and shoot him! How can I trust this? If anything happens to Myc…" Greg Lestrade stopped his rant and stared out of the window.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm not saying that Watson would kill Myc on purpose," said Lestrade, his face grey from the strain. "But at that range…all he has to do is miss by a couple of inches and Mycroft is dead from a sniper's round in his head. Myc won't listen to me."

"If he won't listen to you, what makes you think he'll listen to me," sighed the consulting detective. 'Surely you didn't call me out here to try to talk Mycroft out of this scheme," continued Sherlock.

"Yes. No. Look, you could try talking sense to him," said Lestrade

"I will contact Mycroft, but you know that if the operation is underway, he will not waver," said Sherlock. "Frankly after looking over these meager records and from your descriptions of Watson's marksmanship, I don't think you need to worry about Mycroft. The tremor is obviously absent during stress, did you se any sign of it once he got worked up last night? Which brings into question the accuracy of the PTSD diagnosis. I assume that my brother has been informed that he is going to suffer from serious bruising."

"Yeah, Watson already warned him," said Lestrade with a sad chuckle. "He told Myc that 'getting shot, even with the armor, is no piece of cake'. You should have seen Mycroft's face. He thought you put those words in Watson's mouth," the half-smile faded from the detective inspector's face. "But of course, Mycroft won't listen to reason; he knows better. And now, he won't let me get near him until after 'the assassination.' It's killing me," the detective inspector admitted quietly.

"Ah, I am here for moral support," said the consulting detective, his lip curled with distaste.

"God no. I'd get better support from Anderson," said Lestrade bitterly. "No. What I want, is for you to befriend Watson…"

"You mean spy on him," corrected the tall, pale detective icily.

"Sherlock, even if this goes down right, the man is going to be in over his head. Spec ops or not, he's not trained to be a double agent and he's going to get caught. Like you said, he's going to die, probably sooner, rather than later. Unless he gets help," said Lestrade. "I want you to talk to Mycroft. Assuming that he doesn't listen to you either, then I want you to be ready to go after Moran and his boss. And I think that you'll catch them a lot faster with Watson's help; as a bonus, you'll be saving Watson's life."

"Moran and his boss will suspect me. I'm Mycroft's brother."

"Well, I thought that you were such a genius that you could work around it. I guess this mysterious Irishman really is too smart for us," said Lestrade regretfully.

"Your petty attempts at manipulation are laughable," said Sherlock scathingly. He was angry and uncomfortable. All this talk about the blond soldier dying was unexpectedly unnerving. "My brother and this Irishman are playing a cruel game and that idiotic soldier is caught in the middle. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights when I left last night," scoffed the consulting detective. The little idiot had stared at Sherlock, with his ridiculous blue eyes.

"Come on Sherlock, make up your mind," said the grim detective inspector. "I have to sneak, _sneak_, over to the scene and watch my partner let himself be shot in cold blood by a sniper he's known for less than a day. So what's it going to be?"

"You can begin by throwing me out of your office for insulting you again. I'll have to keep my distance from you for the time being. After Mycroft fakes his death, you and I should be estranged, so that we can come after them from different angles," said Sherlock with a sigh.

"You are an idiot! With a department full of morons! You couldn't find a clue if it stood up and waved a flag in your face," yelled Sherlock.

Lestrade had to stifle a grin. "You arrogant stuck-up toff," began Lestrade loudly. "I don't have to put up with you; get the hell out of my office!"

**A/N **Sorry for the long delay, but thank you to everyone who reads and follows this fic.

Special THANKS to those who have sent reviews including, Little Soldier Mine, AiLovesS, power0girl, Ray, I'mAnIdjit, Kat, EJ12212012,InuChimera7410, Wicked Winter, ruvy91, otala, sarahabruce85, SamuelE8688. Your review and comments help me to improve my writing and, indeed, inspire me to write in the first place. Thank you!

**Disclaimer**-I don't own the rights to SHERLOCK or any plots or characters from the BBC show. BTW why do we do these disclaimers anyway?


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

John scratched his nose and hoped he wouldn't start sneezing again. He had stirred up the dust in the old attic, and it was only now beginning to settle down. Sparkling dust motes still danced in the sunlight streaming through the dormer to his back.

Stupid. Stupid and unprofessional! What the hell are you doing, Captain Watson? You know better than to look at bright sunlight when you have a job to do. Now your eyes are ruined, stupid, stupid. On top of that, you're letting your mind wander.

The sniper sighed, deeply disappointed in himself. He closed his eyes briefly; the shadow from the dazzling window was temporarily burned onto his retina. What a stupid, rookie mistake to make, he chided himself.

The former soldier squirmed on his stomach trying to relieve his shoulder stiffness. The damn wound burned more than usual after twenty-four hours without sleep and all this unusual exertion. And his leg ached, even if it was just psychosomatic, according to his counselor. Lying on the hard floor was not exactly helping his aches and pains either.

Oh for God's sake stop whinging, Watson. When the hell did I turn into such a grouchy, whiny old man? I need to get out more. I need to bloody workout too.

John looked through his gun sight and checked the license plate of the nest limo. Not the right one. Nevertheless, he watched as each passenger exited the car. They never knew that they were briefly held in the crosshairs of an L115A3.

He caressed the sight and checked over the gun one more time. A smear marred its perfect finish. He checked through the sight to make sure his target hadn't snuck up on him. Nope, coast was clear. John used his shirt to gently wipe the barrel clean. Under the circumstances, this gun was likely to be his last and best friend.

That madman, Mor-something-or-other, would probably want John dead after this. And here I am worrying about working out, Christ; I'm such a loser.

Just so long as Harry stays safe; that's all I care about anymore. And I guess I want to save that political tosser, Holmes. I just have to pretend to do this job for the Colonel and his insane Irishman, and then they'll leave Harry alone.

Right. Sure they will, and I bet they'll be willing to sell me London Bridge at a bargain price too. I'm an idiot. Maybe they'll leave Harry alone once I'm gone.

But what if they find out that Mycroft Holmes isn't really dead?

New limo... Wrong limo. Couple of older politicians getting out of the car. They looked vaguely familiar from the telly but were definitely not his mark.

Well, if they find out the posh bastard's still alive, they'll hurt Harry. So I guess I should just kill him; I could just take the head shot. God that's wrong too. How is Harry's life more important than that Mycroft's life? Just stick with your plan; I mean Mycroft's plan. And if that stupid consulting genius detective hadn't done a flit, he probably could have given me some advice. I mean; I could bloody use some advice right about now. Stupid consulting tosser.

John sighed and blinked to rest his eyes. He checked through his sight; his target wasn't there yet. He could easily remember what his mark looked like. A tall ginger, who wears expensive, tailored suits and wears that annoying smirk on his face. John smirked to himself at that one.

Unlike Mycroft's brother…new limo pulling up, wrong plates, a tall blond woman exiting the car, the crosshairs over her opulent bosom, no, definitely not the mark, he smirked again, at the bosom this time…anyway, Mycroft's brother had a really nice smile; apparently, it was a really nice but very rare smile. But it was brilliant when that smile spread across those lush lips.

New limo, wrong plates….tall, beefy man with a toupee, not the mark….now Sherlock Holmes was tall but not beefy, he was thin bordering on skinny. He had broad shoulders and a tight ass and Good God, here I go again. I'm not even gay. I date women, preferably, women with opulent bosoms.

I don't date tall, broad-shouldered men with high cheekbones and wavy black hair and blue-green eyes. No the eyes were grey or silver, but a couple of times they looked green, or maybe aquamarine.

But he was skinny, too skinny, probably a wimp. Yeah, he was probably a posh, pampered wimp. Still, that elegant toff's grip was pretty damn strong, when he dragged me back and forth to that ruddy office. And then he just blew me off. Tosser.

Bloody hell, I nearly missed the next limo.

A tall black man got out of the car, and then passed through the crosshairs followed by a shorter, older man wearing a white kufi.

Well, that lot is not Mycroft Holmes.

Think about something else, anyone else, besides that Sherlock bloke. Silly name, anyway. They're both silly names; really, who names their kids Mycroft and Sherlock?

It's not like I'll ever see him again. It's not like he'd ever be interested in me. Maybe if I started working out…Christ, this is ridiculous. It's like I have a schoolboy crush on him or something.

I haven't had a crush on a man since secondary school. And that wasn't gay, that was just adolescence. I couldn't be gay, because my father would have killed me if I was, so I wasn't. And I'm not. And it doesn't matter anyway, because He's Definitely Not Interested. So ,NOT THINKING ABOUT HIM ANY MORE.

Next car, wrong license plates….Not Mycroft Holmes…I always date women anyway; it's just easier. I like short cute blondes and fluffy redheads with opulent bosoms.

Except when I fall for someone tall and willowy, like Mary. She wasn't really, exactly cute, and she was four inches taller than me. But she was smart, as smart as that tosser, Sherlock, and her was red, not dark brown, red like a sunset scorching the desert skies. And Mary was the bravest woman in the world…

Next damned limo…overdressed woman with bleached blond hair and ridiculous furs….I bet she couldn't put a plaster on a paper cut. But _Mary_ could do triage and minor surgery with bullets flying over her head. Stupid rich bitch (bit not nice there Watson, not nice at all); anyway, I guarantee she wouldn't last an hour in the desert. Like to see her face down an armed insurgent. Mary could. Mary did.

I wouldn't be here alone and old before my time, if I still had Mary.

Next car, wrong plates…not my target

Mary was funny. Mary was brave.

And Mary was dead. Blown up by an IED. Nothing even left to cry over. Of course, I didn't cry. I don't need to cry. Why bother with crying? What the fuck good would it do?

Still, I should have been with her on that medevac, not mucking about on some stupid mission with stupid Moran. I should have been with Mary, and then we could have died together. Now I'm alone and still mucking about for Moran and I'm going to die soon anyway, but not before I suffer, probably horribly.

Next car. Not the target. Rest your eyes. Flex your hands. Be patient, you can wait here all night if necessary. "I would not be alone, if my Mary was here*" he whispered the song to himself.

Check the wind again. Temperature is the same. Check the angle, realign the crosshairs. Use that stunning brunette to check your aim-God, she's really pretty. I think I like brunettes better than blondes anyway. Maybe that's why I like Sherlock.

No, not that again. I like redheads and blondes.

"I'm a sad sack Sir Galahad who's sword's around his knees, with a Grail no longer holy and a prayer that's saying please*…" John quietly sang off tune, as usual.

His eyes focused briefly on the scene in front of him. He flexed his fingers again, keeping them loose and limber. No sign of the tremor, not with this gorgeous rifle in his hands. That's all that's left for me now, a gun and a target. It's enough; it has to be enough.

"I would not be alone, if my Mary were here, but she took off and Lord I'm lost*..." John sang softly. Mary was gone; she left without him.

Stretch limo, wrong plates…some celebrity couple with big white teeth and perfect hair and perfect figures. Stupid people. Anyway, I liked Sherlock's figure better…I mean Mary's figure.

"You know I don't think I'd be drinking, if my Mary were here. And I know what I'd be thinking if my Mary were here*…"

Next limo, wrong plates….Wait. Wait. _Right Plates_. Show time.

To hell with Moran and his boss and their threats. So help me God, I'm going through with Mycroft's stupid scheme. Dear God, let it work.

He took a deep breath, and John's mind went blank. He ran through the check list. Find the target…wait for the target. His body was loose, relaxed. His mouth parted slightly, half grimace and half feral grin.

John gently fingered the trigger, a lover's caress. He locked onto the expected target zone. The mark should walk right into the zone.

The ginger-haired man, wearing his expensive tailored suit, stepped out of the limo. That suit was about to sustain serious damage.

As agreed, the mark pulled out a file and covered his face, ostensibly hiding from the paparazzi. Wait for it…

The file was metallic and reflected the sunlight straight back into John's eye. The blinding flash stabbed his eye.

IDIOT! You noob! How can I shoot you when you freakin' blind me! Christ, if I miss that shot, I'll hit someone else. Or maybe I'll accidentally kill you, Mycroft Holmes. God, if I miss completely, Harry will die. Idiot.

Start over. Start over. Breathe in, breathe out. John looked through the sight with his other eye. Move the crosshairs, find his chest…

Line up the shot… Stop breathing… The minor government official moved slowly. Lock on the target, crosshairs over his heart. One heart gently, so gently..Beat…pull the trigger...

And there's blood pouring out of the chest of Mycroft Holmes. He's falling. People are running away, panicked, like a herd of sheep, breaking apart and running, running blindly across the fields and into the sear, dry hills of Helmand. He's down, Holmes is down and not moving and that cop, Lestrade, is frantically shoving everyone aside, with tears on his face. Poor SOB. God what have I done?

Remember, it's just an act. Holmes is faking it… Break the gun down and shove it in the case. Everything goes into the rucksack… Crowds are are crowding around the body, the fake body. Sirens. People are pointing to John's hideout…Time to retreat, Watson.

Of course, that Lestrade knows exactly where the shot came from. He could have sent the police over already, but that's not part of the plan, is it? So there is a plan. So Holmes is not really dead.

He's just faking it; playing possum. It sure as hell looked real though. Maybe he forgot to wear the armor? No, that's stupid.

Run, Watson, run. Maybe he got the wrong armor? How, how could that happen? Down the stairs, don't touch anything…If he really was dead, then that policeman would already be here arresting me-unless he's overcome by grief and shock?  
Maybe the damned armor was sabotaged. Oh, God that _could_ have happened. There could have been another mole. Oh, God, what if I just killed an innocent man? What if just I killed Sherlock's brother? Oh, God. Oh my GOD! Please God; don't let him die.

Down the last steps, and head for the back door. Forget the sewer. I've had enough of Moran and his crazy boss. I'm getting the hell out of here…

Suddenly a human wall stepped in front of the ex-soldier. John bounced off of him. The seven-foot tall man grabbed John's flailing arm and dragged him easily to the basement stairs. The huge bald man also tore off John's rucksack. John wished he had his Browning.

Oh God, I killed a man, and now some mutant is taking me to the sewers. Maybe its divine retribution, karma, or my real shitty bad luck. John stumbled again; the giant shoved John to the open manhole that was sunk into the floor of the unfinished basement.

John clambered down the ladder into the underground night. He jumped into the foul water and it rose up to his knees. Dim light from above barely illuminated the gleaming water and damp, scummy walls.

The giant grabbed his bad shoulder (What'd you wannna bet he grabbed my bad shoulder on purpose? The bloody bastard). The giant shoved John forward into the dark. "…I know what I'd be thinking if my Mary were here*…"

As it got darker, John tripped over the uneven floor and pitched forward into the water; at least he managed to keep his face out of the sewer water. They had turned a corner, and John couldn't see anything. He stood, his bad leg shaking in the cold. John was surely dead if the giant abandoned him here in the dark, he thought. An enormous hand gripped the back of his neck, painfully, and shoved John forward. The ex-army doctor fell against the slimy wall; it kept from falling into the water this time.

It seemed like they'd be trapped forever in the dank Stygian night. After a while, John couldn't remember the words to his song anymore. He couldn't remember how the sunlight felt on his back this afternoon; he couldn't remember Mary's face. All he could remember was the politician bleeding, bleeding and falling to the ground. Right, try to think of something else.

His feet were going numb in the cold water. Oh wait, he was shaking from the cold, not the stress. That brilliant idea cheered him up. At least I'm not going to die a psychosomatic wreak.

He thought about someone's brilliant eyes, eyes that were the color of the ocean. Of course, that's why they kept changing color. I'm just full of brilliant ideas now that I'm slogging my way to my own execution. But yeah, depending on her mood, the sea changes from grey to green to blue to silver. _His_ eyes were like that. His eyes varied; they were always beautiful and always changing. It was a privilege to have been the focus of those eyes however briefly, before I have to die. Growing colder and colder, John splashed through unspeakably filthy-smelling water, remembering eyes that changed from grey to green to blue to silver. And sometimes they _were_ definitely aquamarine…

**A/N** Song lyrics from _If My Mary Were Here_, by Harry Chapin

**Thank you** for the lovely and helpful reviews from EJ12212012, SamuelE8688, power0girl, ruvy91,Wicked Winter, Darkkira1, Quiet Time, Kat and Guest. Your reviews cheer me up and inspire my muse.

**Disclaimer** I don't own the rights to SHERLOCK or related material.


	8. Chapter 8

**Warnings-**Non-con kissing, touching. Threats of non-con sex. Lots of swearing.

**Chapter 8**

The long, dark trek through the London sewers ended when the giant shoved John face first into another ladder. John was too relieved at the possibility of escape to care about his face; really, how trivial. He clung to the ladder for a few seconds, before he slowly and stiffly began to climb.

He didn't care even where it let them out. Just so long as he was out of that damned sewer.

At the top, a strong hand pulled him out, by his left arm. His bad shoulder protested but John forced all that to the back of his mind, again, how trivial.

"Johnny, you were ordered to aim for his head," said Moran, shaking the sodden blond a few times.

"The head shot was blocked. The mark was hiding his face behind a book. I think he was hiding from all the cameras. They were snapping photos, and he was hiding his face." And I'm babbling, thought John, a bit disoriented by that endless slog through the sewers.

The former colonel tightly secured the mandatory cuffs and blindfold.

"So I went for his chest," continued John, back in the dark again. "I had no other choice. The round probably hit his heart. He's dead now, isn't he? Isn't that what you wanted?"

"Maybe, the boss is awaiting confirmation," said Moran shoving John into the back of yet another car.

"Confirmation? What kind of confirmation does he need?" asked John. "What? Is he gonna stand over the dead body and gloat, like in a two-bit Spaghetti Western?"

That earned John a cuff to the head. "You watch your mouth Watson. You always have to mouth off, don't you?" growled Moran. "The boss is a genius. He knows what he's doing. He's got a doctor at St. Bart's who'll confirm the kill. You're not off the hook, and you don't get paid until that doctor sees the body."

"Well, what if they take the body somewhere else? What if…"

John was interrupted when Moran's fist found his face, again. The ex-army doctor tasted copper as he licked his sore lip. Oh good, a split lip, that's going to feel lovely. Hope it doesn't need stitches; I hate stitches in my lips. He kept his comments to himself.

"...you listening to me? I said, you tell the boss you hurt your face in the sewer," demanded Moran loudly. "It's your own fault you got hit anyway. You asked for it with your smart mouth. I don't get what he sees in you, but he won't like you all banged up, pretty-boy."

John was nonplussed. He hadn't been called pretty boy since secondary school, and he wasn't all that pretty even then. For God's sake, he was an army veteran in his thirties. He wasn't a little boy, and he wasn't even very good-looking, and Moran was an idiot, a jealous idiot. And John wasn't going to take the threats from an idiot anymore, but then hands clenched impotently, trapped within the handcuffs.

He was helpless for now, which infuriated him.

"Oh, right. Why the hell, should I cover for you?" asked John.

"Because otherwise I'll kill you, and I'll kill that bitch sister of yours too."

John froze, then he began to chuckle, then he began giggling. Oh my God, thought John, do not get hysterical, John Watson, _do not_.

"What?" demanded the Colonel.

"You can't kill Harry because your boss is threatening her. You can't both kill her, and he gets first dibs," said John gasping a bit and trying not to laugh. John tried unsuccessfully to curb his irrational laughter.

"That's gotta be some kind of double jeopardy, and it's…it's…double jeopardy, it;s against the law," John gasped out and giggled some more. Oh shite, I'm hysterical.

"What the hell are you going on about, Watson?" asked Moran, irritably. He really wanted to hit the stupid little wanker again, but Jim wouldn't like that. And he already had a fat lip and a new bruise on his cheek. And at least the wanker was brave, better than the usual sniveling cowards he ended up with.

"Look, it's…it's a joke, Colonel. But seriously, you and your boss already have Harry and me on death row. You can't both kill us twice."

"I could torture you," said the Colonel.

"You're already doing that," taunted John.

"I could rape your sister," threatened the Colonel.

"I could kill you, rape your twisted boss and then kill him too," threatened John, his voice suddenly harsh.

Moran slammed John's back, knocking the shorter blond into the car door, laughing. "That's a good one!" John was confused.

"I forgot why I liked you, Watson. You're a funny one." Moran chuckled. "Sometimes I don't get what you're on about, but you can be real funny."

"You? Killing me? What a joke." continued the former Colonel. "But, you know, I like your spirit. I guess I can put up with you for a while. The boss'll just want to play with you for a bit, and then he'll get bored. He's a genius; he always gets bored. Then, he'll come back to me, Johnny. He always comes back to me. And then he'll give _you_ to _me_, so you better stay on my good side."

Moran subsided, chuckling darkly. He muttered, "_rape the boss and kill him_, that's a good one Johnny."

Glad to be of service, mate, thought John sarcastically. He tried to think of something pleasant, like Mary or that Christmas when home was home and when he got a puppy. Or. how about what it felt like when the consulting detective touched him. And what his voice sounded like, deep and rich. And those cheekbones?

Exhausted, blindfolded and cuffed, John drifted off, not thinking of Sherlock Holmes at all.

* * *

"Get out of the fucking car, you load of shit," John broke out of his half daze. Someone, not the Colonel, grabbed John's half-dead arm, and dragged him out of the car. Of course his cramped legs gave out and he crumpled to the ground. The stranger, tugged on John's shoulder (the left one, naturally), which sent sharp pains down John's arm and across his chest.

The former soldier scrambled to a stand and nearly fell again when the rag covering his eyes was yanked off. Sebastian Moran was nowhere to be seen. He tried to take a description of the car and get its plate numbers, but his vision was much too blurry from being blindfolded.

John was back at the underground bunker cum offices. He was led to a new room and shoved inside. He shuffled in and came to a stop on an expanse of pristine white carpet; it looked like freshly fallen snow. The walls, too, were white with canvases of black and grey abstracts. The furnishings were glass, and metal and black wood. In the center of the room was a huge bed, covered with a silky black duvet. The pillows and sheets looked to be black silk too.

Judging by the decorating, someone was really into melodrama.

The only spot of color was an enormous bouquet of blood-red roses. Red roses and black silk sheets. John felt sick; luckily he hadn't eaten anything all day. He tried to imagine how he could kill himself or Mor-whatever, before he was forced onto that bed. When nothing immediately came to mind, he decided to count the roses. What if Sherlock once again asked him, 'how many'?

NO! Idiot! I'll probably never even see him again. I hope I never do see him again, because he'll hate me for almost killing his brother. I couldn't face that.

John carefully counted the roses. Oh God, I wonder if I killed him for real; it sure as hell looked real. Well. Of course it looked real. It was supposed to look real. God, I hope it wasn't real. I've lost it. I've lost my mind…Count the roses again, Captain Watson. It's better than having a panic attack in enemy headquarters.

The door opened behind John. Idiot! You've forgotten all your training. Always keep your back to a wall, and always face the door.

"Look at my carpet!" screeched the Irishman.

John turned around slowly. His footprints had left a trail of sludge across the virginal white carpet. The snowy expanse was further defiled by fetid mucky, water dripping off his clothes.

"My pet is ruining my carpet! He's filthy! And, Sebby, who's been beating on my pet. No one hits him, not without my permission!" said the petulant crime boss. He was pouting, actually pouting with his bottom lip stuck out; it was almost cute, in a macabre sort of way.

Well, I guess the stress has been too much. I'm losing my mind; it's kind of sad, thought the doctor.

The businessman wore a perfectly tailored, charcoal grey, pinstriped suit. His shirt was white and the tie was blood-red, like the roses (24 roses, John had counted them three times to be sure). Mor-whatever's hair was slicked back with hair gel…

John abruptly realized that Mor-whatever was standing right in front of him. Speaking softly now, and somehow that was more alarming than the shouting. "Now Johnny, I asked you a question. Who hit you Johnny?"

"Moran hit me once this afternoon, before he realized that I didn't betray him, um betray you, you guys," said John. Moran's face darkened like the sudden eclipse of the sun.

Stupid Colonel. Wait till I'm done, thought John. "Then I fell in the sewer. I worried that I might've knocked a tooth loose, and I split my lip,' lied John, running his tongue over the cut. Mor-whatever watched John's tongue avidly, as Moran's face began to lighten.

Good news, the eclipse was over and Moran was happy; bad news, I just flirted with a madman. Yep, I've lost my freakin' mind, thought the blond soldier.

"Well, that's alright then. You need to be more careful, Johnny-boy. And speaking of careful, you made a mess on Daddy's carpet," his voice was rising in pitch, ending high and teasing. John's blood ran cold, expecting some exotic punishment.

Just then a large gorilla of a man with faded blond hair and ruddy cheeks came in.

"Oh, goodie!" chirped the barmy businessman. "Franklin? Did you bring my pet in here and let him make a mess all over my carpet?" Mor-whatever's voice purred softly, like a lover's.

"It was orders boss. You said to put Watson in the guest suite…"

"But he made a mess on my carpet!" shrieked the well-dressed lunatic.

The Irishman's eyes were wide and somehow empty. He snapped his fingers.

The ex-colonel smoothly pulled out his side arm, and shot the gorilla in the head. The man crumpled and lay bleeding extravagantly on the formerly pure carpet.

The glistening carmine shrieked violently against the virginal white carpet. John remembered to take a breath.

OK. Well, now there's a bigger mess on your carpet, thought John. Turning to look at the psychopaths behind him. John very softly hummed under his breath, "I would not be alone if my Mary were here but she took off and Lord I'm lost…*"

* * *

"Now, now Johnny, Daddy went to a lot of trouble to bring you such a nice dinner. If you don't clean your plate; you won't get your deee-ssert," teased the handsome lunatic, in a sing-song voice.

John smiled his fake smile. He sipped some more wine; you've had enough wine Watson, he thought, you can barely focus as it is.

John was freshly showered and shaved, wearing a navy blue suit with pinstripes. It was almost identical to Mor-whatever's suit, except the color. And somehow, it had been perfectly tailored to fit John, which was creepy, when you got right down to it. The jacket emphasized his shoulders and muscular chest. John had thought that the trousers were a bit snug, but Mor-whatever had clapped his hands in approval when John modeled his new suit.

The Irishman had selected a dark-blue tie with claret-colored stripes and tied it on for John, as if they were really a couple.

They sat in an enormous dinning room. The table dressed in white linen with candles, the requisite red roses, fine china and silver. The gourmet food was beyond probably fantastic, but it tasted like ashes to the ex-army doctor.

John tried to eat his bloody steak, but if he ate it, he was sure he'd be sick. Change the subject.

"So… Daddy," Mor-whatever had insisted that John call him Daddy. "Um, what do you, um do for…fun?"

"Well, Johnny I'm glad you asked that," said the Irishman, chewing a mouthful of steak, the bloody juice trickled down his chin. John was mesmerized; it was like looking at a vampire, right before it attacked.

"I like holding hands with my handsome boyfriend," the Irishman grabbed John's hand, "and I like sitting in front of the fireplace and planning assassinations with my gorgeous boyfriend, and having dinner with my adorable boyfriend," said Mor-whatever.

John pasted his smile on his face, hoping that it didn't look as sickly as he felt. John had never hated his looks, but dammit he wasn't handsome and…and…Adorable? Really?

Mor-whatever had continued talking, "I really like you, Johnny. You're different," his voice dropped low again. That must be his default seduction voice. "Most of my boyfriends were shaking in their bespoke suits by the time we got to the romantic dinner. I had to kill them. I just had to. But not you. You soldiers are made of sterner stuff, Johnny. Well, good for you.…..Oh, oh! I know, it's TIME FOR DANCING! COME ON JOHNNY BOY!" yelled the psycho-vampire-crime lord, who still had blood on his lips.

Right, dancing. Should I tell him I don't know how to dance, at least not fancy, ballroom dancing? Oh well, thank God, the dinner from hell was over.

Music, strangely antique and tinny sounding, began to play. It sounded distant and scratchy, like maybe it was from an old-fashioned record player.

I've either lost my mind, or I've died and gone to hell, thought the doctor, as his deranged date, led him out onto the floor to dance Waiters ran into the room, like penguins form some kid's movie; they cleared the table and then moved it to the side, to make more room. Mor-whatever embraced John tightly and began moving them expertly in time to the gentle music. John felt stiff and awkward in comparison to the lunatic's lithe swaying.

It all felt like some weird dream sequence. Yeah, maybe it's all a dream or, more like, a nightmare.

"It's like a dream, isn't it Johnny," murmured the madman.

"Hmmm?" hummed John. It would probably be bad form to tell his seducer that it felt like a nightmare. Oh my God. The psychotic Irishman just read my mind; what if _he already_ _knew_ _exactly_ what I was thinking. I am so fucked.

I could kill him. Kill him right now, before he tries to force me to have sex…except then Moran will kill me. And that's even fine, but he might hurt Harry. Not fine. Shite.

"What's my little Johnny-kins troubling his head about. My cute, little, adorable pet," his lips moved over John's ear like a caress. He began kissing John's ear and slowly moved down his jaw. It was sexy and horrible, and John pulled away.

"Don't," warned Mor-whatever coldly. "Not if you want to see little Harry ever again." Oh God, he does read minds.

The psycho-vampire savagely bit John's neck, just below the collar of his hand-tailored white shirt. John had frozen for a second, when the Irishman threatened Harry directly. He stood still, willing himself not to cry out in pain; his hands were tightly fisted. Surely that was blood oozing down his neck. He fully expected to see Mor-whatever turn into a vampire with fangs. He waited for the undead monster to feed off of him.

"Daddy's had enough now," the crazy man sang. The music changed, still scratchy sounding. Some man sang, "My heart is sad and lonely, For you I sigh, for you dear…"* John was pulled back into a swaying embrace. On his neck, the bite burned and bled onto his expensive new shirt.

Pressed close together, John felt their groins rubbing and was mortified to feel the madman's erection. And dear lord, he was getting hard too. SHITE. Think about Harry; think about something vile and disgusting. Wait this _is_ vile and disgusting.

This is not what I want. This is not how I wanted to die. Why the hell couldn't I have died cleanly and honorably in Afghanistan. He glanced at the fresh blood -his blood- on Mor-whatever's lips. Was it turning him on or making him sick?

"Oh Johnny, Johnny. I'm so glad that you're having a good time tonight," said the Irishman looking lasciviously down at John's crotch. "But don't get your hopes up." The madman reached one hand up to pet John's face, and slid his hand down to caress the bite. His fingers came away smeared with blood.

"Now, Daddy's going to do this right. I'm going to court you, Johnny-boy. Tonight's our first date. First dates end with just kissing," the Irish wanna-be vampire said.

The recorded singer crooned, "I'd gladly surrender, myself to you, body and soul…" The madman licked his bloody fingers, slowly, one at a time. It was sexy and disgusting.

Fight or flight. John's heart raced, he needed to pound this madman into the expensive hardwood floor or run, run far away and never look back. Instead he danced, slowly, "My life s wreck you're making…" John suppressed a hysterical laugh. Doomed, I'm freakin' doomed, thought the ex-soldier.

"On our second date, we'll cuddle and touch. Will you be a naughty boy then, I wonder?" the madman simpered. John felt increasingly nauseous. Yep, this is making me sick, not turning me on, thought John. Good, I'm not as crazy as he is, yet.

Suddenly, the soft, yet surprisingly strong, hands pulled John in tighter.

"And then Johnny-boy, on our third date? The third date will be Nirvana, baby, 'cause Daddy's going to fuck your brains out. And I'm going to nail you to the floor," the crazy Irishman's voice chanted low.

"Just hypothetically speaking…Daddy," began John Watson. Stupid, this is stupid, John warned himself, don't' ask him…...John asked, "What if I wanted to go, um, even slower. Or what if I, umm, didn't want to date anyone, you know, um, right now, I'm sort of taking a break from... dating you see…"

"Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no. Daddy wouldn't like that," back to the sing-song voice. NOT GOOD. "Johnny-boy won't do that because then Daddy would have to punish his little pet. Poor little pet," the Irishman expertly twirled his partner, ending with a dip and then returning to the swaying dance.

"Johnny, I promise I will fuck you on the third date. And if I'm happy, if I'm feeling the love, you might just enjoy it too. But if I feel just a _tiny bit rejected…._then I will make you burn; I will make you bleed," he ended with a low growl.

Mor-whatever crushed John's chin in a vice-like grip, pulling his face in close. He bruised John's lips in a semblance of a kiss. John's split lip burned, his blood betrayed him and it burned. John's heart began to break, he was so lost and alone. He was so fucked, bad choice of words.

And they were dancing again.

"You'll come back to me on your own, John Watson. You'll want me. D'you know why?" intoned the smiling psychopath. "You had fun today; didn't you Johnny? _I know you did_," his voice purred dangerously. "You liked having a real gun in your hands again. You liked having a target to shoot. You liked having the ultimate power over life and death. You're addicted to adrenaline, and you liked seeing that body exploding all because of you. _Because you pulled the trigger and put the round in his fucking chest_."

"I made you live again, Captain Johnny Watson. I gave you a purpose again. I made you use your miniscule little mind, for once. You'll keep coming back to me for your fixes, Johnny. You'll want to hold my gun in your hands, and you'll want to shoot my enemies for me."

"I'm the only one who's going to give you a reason to live, Johnny-boy," crooned Mor-whatever. "You are going to give yourself to me willingly, body and soul."

In spite of his tirade, Mor-whatever, elegantly twirled his captive boyfriend, ending with another dip and another hungry kiss.

* * *

After nine mental renditions of If My Mary Were Here, the cabbie told John that he could remove his blindfold.

Looking out of the cab's windows, John did not recognize the street nor could he make out the street signs. Even at night, his eyes were blurry after wearing the blindfold for more than twenty minutes. He noted a hipster coffee shop on the corner and, next to it, the women's boutique with Japanese paper umbrellas in the window.

"I, um, I don't suppose you'll tell me where we're going now, Mister Um… Hope?" John asked the cabbie, finally deciphering the writing on the license, which was posted in the front of the cab.

"Well now, that's where you're wrong. Why wouldn't I tell you? I'm taking you home, o'course, an' why would you bother to learn my name? No one else ever does. See, no one ever thinks about the cabbie. It's like you're invisible. Just the back of an 'ead," said the gray-haired taxi driver who wore a hound's-tooth cloth cap and dark rimmed glasses.

"Well, you're not invisible to me, Mr. Hope, are you?" said John. "Must get kind of dull, driving around all night, if everyone thinks you're invisible."

"Oh, I manage to distract myself. See, I can figure people out. I know how people think. I can see it all inside my head. An' then sometimes, I can play games with them," said the cabbie. "An', now I have a sponsor. An' it's even more in'erestin'. I make a lot more money, too."

"I see," said John.

No, I don't see at all, thought John. In the rearview mirror their eyes met. John's brows were drawn together as he considered the cabbie, whose own eyes were cold despite the innocent smile on his face.

Oh, Christ, he's like a zombie. Look at those dead eyes, thought John. He's as mad as Mor-whatever. No wonder he works for that crazy bastard. Change the subject.

"Handsome children, in your picture there. I always thought it'd be nice….to have a family… some kids," said John, fidgeting in his seat.

"They're my kids. They're good kids, proper geniuses both o' them. Been trying to get them in the best schools," said the driver, his face softening. "It's not easy, not much money in driving cabs."

"No, it's never easy Mr. Hope," agreed John.

"I have to moonlight now, to get them money, you see?" said the cabbie genially with his dead, zombie-like eyes.

"I see," agreed John. I see I have to stop watching horror movies. Change the subject.

They chatted about the weather, likely to rain all night with some clearing tomorrow, and the prospects for a upcoming labor strike, likely to be inconvenient for most people but profitable for London's cabbies. There's always a silver lining….

"And 'ere's your address, Dr. Watson," said the cabbie.

"Thank you very much, Mr. Hope," said John, courteous, even to psuedo-zombies. He withdrew some bills from his very thin wallet.

"Ohhh…" said Jefferson Hope in a rising and falling sing-song voice. John would hate sing-song voices forever. "Oh, no. Dr. Watson, your fare's been more than covered by our sponsor. 'sides, I wouldn't take any money from you; you're a proper gentleman. Don't get many of those these days. No, don't get many gentleman at all."

John bade Jefferson Hope goodnight. His relief was so intense, that his head was spinning. He practically ran up to his second floor bed sit, stumbling once on the stairs. He barely made it into his flat and then into the bathroom, before he threw up his romantic gourmet dinner and fine red wine.

Afterwards, he carefully removed the tailored suit, a Westwood, according to Mor-whatever. Clearly the suit was worth more than any of John's other possessions, except maybe his laptop. Then again, maybe not even the laptop was that valuable. He hung the suit up carefully. The shirt was a mess, with a large bloody stain. He'd have to find a good dry cleaners in the morning.

He slumped down onto the floor, holding his head in his hands. That devil Moriarty had touched and kissed him, and he couldn't do a damned thing about it, because he had to keep Harry safe.

He was alone. He had to figure this out on his own. He had to run away with Harry or hope that that Mycroft Holmes and the police found the deranged crime boss before the dreaded third date. God, what if I just killed myself, then there'd be no reason to kill Harry, would there?

John was so alone.

But that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was that Mor-whatever was right. Over night, John had fallen in love with the guns again. John _had_ enjoyed his mission. And how twisted was that, that John felt alive again, after shooting someone?

But I don't like watching people die! I didn't like watching that politician bleed out and fall. God, I never want to enjoy watching that shite. Never.

John had never believed in the devil before, but now. Bloody hell, Mor-whatever isn't a vampire, he's the bloody, fucking devil incarnate. And the devil was offering John excitement and a reason to live. It was a shiny new lease on life. Here's your reason to live, Johnny-boy, just give me your body and soul. Oh, and let me have your heart so I can burn it in hell. That's what he's really saying, thought John.

No. Not going to happen. There was no way. "No way! I won't do it. I won't go back!" shouted John, his voice rising. He didn't care if he woke the whole bloody neighborhood. The bloody neighbors be damned. God help me.

John was tempted. He would have to freakin' kill himself, because John was tempted to sell himself, to sell his body and soul to the devil wearing Westwood.

* * *

At 6:45 am London was waking up. Sherlock Holmes and DI Lestrade stood together in an office in Mycroft's secret basement-complex. Lestrade held a styrofoam cup of something that resembled coffee. At least it was hot.

"Yeah, so Watson made it home around 3:35 am. He got out of that cab…" said the grey haired and grey-faced detective inspector.

"I can watch the videos for myself, inspector," snapped Sherlock. He had eschewed the coffee; he was above such things unless his transport was failing, "I assume the cab's plates are false?" asked Sherlock.

"Yeah. And the cab disappeared off the CCTV cameras after only ten minutes. Driver knows what he's doing. And the cab has no distinguishing characteristics . Myc wouldn't let us to pull in the cabbie anyway," said Lestrade, grimacing. "He thinks it's too soon."

"Drugs and cake have clouded his brain," dismissed the tall, younger man.

"Look, what Myc did was brave. And now he's in a lot of pain and…"

"He chose this. John Watson will have warned him that he would get hurt despite the armor. Mycroft chose to ignore the warning from an expert sniper and a doctor with extensive battlefield experience. Knowing the sniper, he advised my brother to wear additional armor. Knowing my vain brother, he refused to look bulky and so now suffers from the bruising and a broken rib," deduced the consulting detective.

Greg Lestrade pressed his lips together, confirming Sherlock's deductions and suppressing his anger and frustration at both of the Holmes brothers.

"I don't see you wasting any of your precious sentiment on the little sniper. The cameras in his flat clearly show that he's been beaten more, and he appears to have a neck wound, odd that." Sherlock stopped the playback to study the wound. Surely it wasn't some kind of bite. He continued the playback, but turned down the audio volume while the ex-army doctor was violently ill in the bathroom.

They watched in silence as the former soldier hung up his suit and slumped to the floor.

They both jumped as he suddenly yelled, "No way. I won't do. I wont go back."

"Nothing else happens, Sherlock. Watson just falls asleep, right there on the floor," said Lestrade, wearily running his hand through his hair. "He's probably drunk. I'm going to go see if Myc is resting. I'll check in with you, a little later."

"Sherlock watched as the blond rubbed his face, apparently fighting off tears. The former doctor did not treat his wound, which was careless of him. Soon, Sherlock realized that John was snoring. Eventually, the little soldier rolled all the way to the floor, curled into a tight ball.

The consulting detective fast-forwarded to 6:13 am when, according to the techs, Watson had a nightmare and woke. In the video, the former soldier was clenching his fists and trembling. He was silent other than for his ragged breathing. The former soldier suddenly sat up in the dimly lit room.

Watson was panting heavily;and briefly looked confused, as if he didn't know where he was. Then he slowly got up, clearly stiff and sore. His neck was bruised and covered with dried blood. His face was bruised and his lower lip swollen and split. His eyes looked around, searching for possible threats. Then he hobbled off to the bathroom, softly singing something, "and a prayer…I would not…alone, if my Mary were here,. …thinking if…"

The bathroom door shut.

The soldier was competent. He executed his 'assassination mission' flawlessly, and, despite the odds, he even managed to perform his double agent role so far. Impressive.

The surprising thing was that John Watson seemed to love and hate his mission with equal fervor. He was suffering from a moral crisis, which Sherlock normally disdained. However he was curious about the little blond.

The crime boss had obviously hurt and seduced John Watson, and Watson was tempted and repulsed.

Watson, the honorable soldier, would undoubtedly do something stupid. He might give in to the Irishman or he might try to run for it. Most likely he'd follow his self-destructive instincts and…

Sherlock didn't like that. He would have to give the little blond a better option then, and he would have to move fast.

A/N *If My Mary Were Here-by Harry Chapin

**Body and Soul (lyrics by Heyman, Sour, Eyton, music by Green)

Thank you to everyone who has been reading my fic.

I would especially like to thank everyone who has taken the time to comment and review. Nothing makes me happier than reading your reviews. Thank you to EJ 12212012, InuChimera7410, ruvy91, power0girl, SamuelE8688, Wicked Winter, Quiet Time, AiLoveS.

**Disclaimer**-I don't own the rights to SHERLOCK or any plots or characters from the BBC show. BTW why do we do these disclaimers anyway?


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N** Sorry it took so long to post this chapter. At least it's longer than usual :D

**Warnings** Colorful language (That means that John swears a lot. I told him to stop but he won't listen. He's very stubborn really.)

**Chapter 9**

John left his flat at 0730. There were still no police. And, better yet, there were no psychopaths waiting on his doorstep either. He strode briskly down the foggy road.

Men and women passed him by; _they_ weren't being stalked by madmen in bespoke Westwood suits. _They_ weren't dragged through the sewers by giants. They weren't obsessing about tall, dark strangers in _their_ bespoke suits. Christ, does everyone own a ruddy bespoke suit?

Wait, I even own a ruddy bespoke suit, thanks to Psycho-Mor-whatever.

He walked to his favorite coffee shop. It was small, very clean but just a bit run down, rather like John Watson, he smiled to himself. I ought to take notes and write a book.

Inside, faded curtains framed the clean window. John inhaled the strong scent of fresh coffee. He avoided the higher priced specialty drinks and ordered coffee with milk, no sugar, at the scarred wooden counter.

The former army officer sat at his favorite outside table. His back was to the brick wall so no enemy could sneak up on him. He had a good view of the street and could keep an eye on the shop's patrons. The rooftops were clear and there was no suspicious activity from the many windows looking down at the coffee shop.

From this table, the ex-soldier could escape back into the café or down the street if needed. The parked cars could offer cover; of course, that delivery truck would provide the best cover.

The fog made everything more challenging, as it offered cover to any threats. Still, a bit of fog wasn't going to stop Captain John Watson Ret. from enjoying his coffee and his newspaper.

He scanned the street once more for threats like insurgents, snipers or psychopathic ballroom dancers. Luckily, none were found, yet.

He would remain alert. He noted the customers who entered the little coffee shop; he watched for when they departed too. He sipped his coffee and opened the newspaper. The headline was not unexpected.

** Mycroft Holmes, Aged 42 Shot Dead  
**** Neighbors Live in Fear as Police  
**** Search for Unknown Assassin**

Officials will not speculate as to the motive for the  
apparent assassination of a government worker. The  
long-time official died at the scene…

John read the front-page article intently. A tall man appeared out of nowhere; he read the headlines over John's shoulder.

"Terrible business that," he said, in a soft, deep voice. "I don't know what the world is coming to, do you?"

John froze at the soft voice over his shoulder. Where the devil had he come from? John had been watching the street and the sidewalks. The man hadn't been in the shop when John bought his coffee. Was there a back door? There must be a back door.

The ex-captain was furious at himself for letting the man sneak up on him. And I'm being rude.

"Oh, um, yeah. Um, dreadful, really dreadful," agreed John dutifully. No one had ever bothered him here. And now the man was seating himself at John's favorite table.

What was the world coming to?

"I'm sorry, any one sitting here?" asked the interloper, a tall redhead, with dark brown eyes. He made as if to stand up again.

John shook his head no, smiled a bland fake smile and pretended to read his paper.

Silly git, anyone could see John was busy. At least the man had a nice smile, fake, but nice. John smirked behind his paper; the git probably thought everyone fell for his fake ingratiating smile.

The barista came out of the shop to ask if the man wanted to order anything. John was stunned. He'd been coming here everyday for weeks, and never once received table service.

Obviously, _she_ fell for the man's fake smile.

"So what's good? Any recommendations?" The man had a nice voice, almost a baritone. He had a trace of accent, probably Swedish?

John belatedly realized the man was asking him for advice. "Um, coffee? Coffee's good." Well duh, this is a coffee shop. Idiot. I'm being an idiot. "Um the cappuccino is really good here. Get the cappuccino; it's my favorite," decided John.

The man flashed the melting barista an incandescent grin, "Two large cappuccino's please. Do you take sugar?" he asked John.

John blinked up at the ginger, "I, I have a coffee."

"Ah, but not your favorite. No sugar for him? Yes, and three for me, thank you Dorcas," she beamed back at the young redhead wearing a leather jacket and jeans. Was it any wonder he got table service; look at his figure. And with a face like that? With those chiseled cheekbones and that smile?

What the hell? I went twenty years without hankering for another man and in the last two days I get a crush on a man I'll never see again, and I'm attracted to another in spite of the fact he's a psycho-nut job, and now I'm admiring an absolute stranger.

Talk about a sexual identity crisis. I should go back into counseling. Or maybe I should get laid. God, think about something else, Watson.

The ginger sat smiling vacantly while John desperately tried to start a conversation. "Watch football much?"

"No," said the handsome redhead. I'm an idiot, thought John. Of course he's not a football fan. He probably likes astronomy or painting or music. Ask him about music then?

John was saved by the return of the barista. She set John's coffee down without looking at him and then leaned over so that the tall redhead could admire her ample cleavage. Silly tart, thought John, he's not even looking. John restrained himself from smirking.

"Um, thank you for the coffee," said John, to the young, well, younger, man. The man wasn't really all that young, just a couple years younger than John. He certainly wasn't_ too_ young. "It's good. The cappuccino, I mean. I hope you like yours." I sound so stupid, complained the ex-soldier.

"More than adequate," said the ginger, obviously well-educated and no doubt rich. Still, he sipped the cappuccino happily enough.

Apparently this man was comfortable without constant conversation. Well, fine. John didn't really get into small talk either. John flashed his companion a small smile, his eyes bright.

Out of habit, the captain scanned the street and rooftops, at least as much as he could see through the mist. The fog kept the rest of London at a distance, and John relaxed, sipping his coffee.

"I see you're a fan of pugilism," offered the tall, brown-eyed man.

"What? Oh, the bruises. Um, no. I got into a bit of a scrape at a bar the other night." said John. Shite, now I sound like a drunkard or a tough.

"They look recent and painful, especially that lip," said the ginger, licking his lip. Good God, is he chatting me up? The ginger smiled at John. Turning to check on the patrons, John noticed that the barista was glaring daggers at him. Well, she thinks he's chatting me up. John smiled.

"I've had worse. No big deal. Um, John, John Watson," he stuck his hand out uncertainly.

"Sven Sigerson, pleased to meet you, John," his large hand enclosed John's with warmth. He held John's hand a few second's longer than necessary. His smile lit up his whole face.

John Watson, an ordinary name, thought Sigerson, for an apparently ordinary man. That idiot Dorcas clearly overlooked John Watson; she'll never know what she missed, he thought smugly.

"Do you like music?" blurted out John, blushing afterward. John Watson blushes nicely, thought the ginger. I like the way his blue eyes pay attention to things. He may actually be capable of proper observation, if well-trained.

"Yes, I do, classical music; I prefer the violin," said Sven Sigerson

"Well, the violin is my favorite classical instrument," lied John. Ah, he's pretending to like the violin in order to interest me. How pedestrian, yet rather cute. Delete that. Not cute. I don't do cute. Delete. Delete.

IDIOT! He knows I'm lying, thought John, catching a frown on the ginger's face. Oh dear God, I'm going to lose the patient. "Actually, I don't know much about classical music. I really do like the violin though. I like sad violin music," said John. Why did I just say that?

AH! The former officer can't maintain the lie. He's compelled to tell the truth. A truly honest man, how odd. And there it is, the sadness in his blue eyes. That is honest. He is so very sad.

"Sad because you lost someone or sad because you were hurt by someone," asked Sigerson, now intent. The case could wait a bit; he was about to find out about the real John Watson.

"Lost someone," said John, honest but curt. "You?"

"Me?" asked the ginger.

"You. Did you lose someone or were you hurt by someone? It's a fair question,' challenged John.

"Neither, I'm too busy with the Work," said Sven, startled into a moment of honesty.

"D'you have a girl friend?" asked John sipping his cappuccino, the newspaper long forgotten.

"No, not really my area," said the ginger, slightly confused because the discussion had drifted off course. John Watson was advancing steadily now.

"Boyfriend then? Which is fine," said John with raised eyebrows.

"I know it's fine," John can't seriously be interested in me; I haven't even shown him how smart I am. I should try deducing something for him…

"So you're unattached, like me," Yes. I should say, yes, thought Sherlock, suddenly flustered. But that might complicate the case. It's the case that matters. The Work is all-important.

"Ah, Watson, I think I should tell you that I consider myself married to my work and while I'm flattered…" said Sven.

"No, no I wasn't...I was just, um making conversation," said John, blushing. Idiot, I'm an idiot. And it's over. Flat line. Time to call the code. The patient is dead at 0907. Cause of death, terminal idiocy on the part of the doctor.

"You never said who you lost," said Sven.

"No." said John. "No, I didn't. Thank you for the coffee, Mr. Sigerson."

John got up, still bright red, wearing his dignified face and standing at attention. He limped over to tip his empty cup in the bin.

Wait. No, thought the consulting detective. What did I do? I let him surprise me. I fell for his meek, unassuming demeanor. I forgot he's an army officer, an officer with four tours and special training. I should have predicted that he could become assertive. And why should that have mattered anyway.

He's getting away.

He was interested. He thinks I rejected him. No, no, no. He's not the type to beg, and he won't force himself on anyone, too much the honorable gentleman. So he won't try again Why, why, why did I just tell John Watson that I was married to my work?

Mr. Sigerson rose up quickly. John ignored him and turned to walk back to his flat for another fun-filled day of 'Why should I even bother?' and 'There must be fifty ways to kill a soldier.' Maybe, I'll finally start that stupid blog. Not.

The soldier turned enough to eye the tall ginger as he binned his trash. His wide brown eyes met John's with a hopeful expression as he followed. Wait, didn't he just shoot me down?

Hold on…Sigerson's hair and eyes are wrong, of course. This man smiles more than _he_ did. This ginger is much nicer than _him_.

John had an eye for a good figure. Sigerson had the same figure, broad shoulders, narrow hips, and long neck. And he was _exactly_ the same height as the consulting detective. John's blue eyes narrowed and then widened in comprehension. Son of a bitch!

"Nice accent. Had your bit of fun? Enjoy your little masquerade, _Mr. Holmes_?" snarled John. He pivoted and marched down the street. Well, quick march with a limp.

Bugger it! He was so very, very tired of the games these self-professed geniuses played. Why can't they all, just leave me the hell alone!

He began hobbling home. Only now, did he remember that he'd lost his cane. More importantly, while he hadn't needed it since yesterday, he wasn't sure he'd make it home this morning without one. Dammit!

Why had the leg pain gone away? Why did it just come back in full force? Damn my leg!

Sigerson/Holmes was easily keeping up with the angry ex-soldier. "Please do not take offence, Dr. Watson. I assure you I wasn't playing games with you."

Staring straight ahead, John snorted derisively. Jesus, he was another sodding mind reader, too.

"I apologize. I let sentiment get in the way of business," said the tall ginger. His hand hovered over the shorter man's arm, wanting to stop his retreat.

"Whatever are you going on about?" demanded John.

"I meant to question you about your meeting with Moran. But I got distracted," confessed Sherlock, glancing down at the frowning blond. And even that _frown_ was distracting, thought Sherlock with dismay.

"Distracted?" John slowed down, because the 'psychosomatic' leg pain felt pretty darn real. It hurt.

"I was flattered by your obvious interest in me, even though I hadn't made any deductions or demonstrated my superior intelligence," Sherlock confided.

"What, you think people can't like you unless you impress them with how smart you are?" asked John, frowning more, his forehead deeply furrowed.

"People who tolerate me do so because of my genius," admitted the lanky ginger.

"Maybe you should try to dazzle them with your incredible modesty, Mr. Holmes," said John his lips tilting up in a tiny grin.

"Ah, sarcasm. It was inevitable I suppose," said the consulting detective. Trying to hide his regret and embarrassment behind his cold façade. It took a moment before he realized that the doctor did not, in fact, deny his interest.

"Well what do you expect when you brag about your superior intellect. No, don't interrupt. I get it, that you're smart, really smart, a genius like the Irishman, Mor-whatever, but that doesn't give you the right to…Hey! What the hell is the matter with you?" squealed John. He was truly mortified by his squeal but the tall berk with the fake red hair had picked him up by his elbows and then twirled him around.

"Say that again," demanded Sigerson/Holmes staring intently into John's eyes.

"I said that you don't have the right…"

"No, the name, you said a genius like Mor-whatever. You have part of a name. His name. The name of the criminal genius, who arranged Mycroft's assassination. You are brilliant, John," said the handsome berk.

"I, I…Oh,well….Moran let it slip yesterday, in between threats and smacking me around," said John, regaining his composure, and looking up at the thin redhead. He was intensely pleased at the detective's praise. "At first, I thought maybe the lunatic's name was Moran, too. But they don't look or talk alike, and Moran has basically said that he and Mor-whatever are, well, lovers I guess... except psychopaths supposedly can't love."

"Mor, Moore, Morris, Morrison, Morgan, Morse…" muttered Sherlock, tapping two fingers against his cupid's bow.

"Mordred," offered John.

Sherlock glanced down obliquely, "This is serious, Dr. Watson. I'm trying to think," he said with disdain.

"I am serious. I think he's a lot like prince Mordred. Dark, evil, handsome, scheming against the King…" said John.

"Wait, you think that the Mor-person…"

"Mor-whatever, Mr. Holmes,"corrected John.

"Mor-person, Mor-whatever. What does it matter? The point is, you think he's handsome. And can you possibly be likening my fat brother to King Arthur? That's absurd. Whatever goes on in that funny little mind of yours?" asked Sherlock/Sven offended.

"It's Mor-whatever, until I find out his real name. And your brother isn't fat; he's bossy," said John, his hand clasped behind his back."And he's obviously pretty powerful because he shut down Scotland Yard's homicide division the other night, organized this counterplot against Mor-_whatever _overnight; he certainly covered up the death of that double agent…"

"Yes, yes, Mycroft likes to pretend that he has a minor role in the British Government. You'll find that in reality, he is the British government, when he isn't the CIA or MI6," scoffed Sherlock, his eyes narrowed in irritation. Did the little blond admire both the Mor-person and Mycroft? That was ridiculous... and worrisome.

"Oh God, I haven't asked. Um, how is he since I, since he, um, got shot?" inquired John.

"Fine. He's fine. He has extensive bruising and probably a cracked rib," said the consulting detective. "And now you will want to waste time, worrying about him. Don't. You warned him in advance about the dangers. You advised him to wear more armor. He disregarded your advice and suffers accordingly."

John's eyebrows had drawn low. "He's your brother, Sherlock."

"And I visited him, in his secret hide-away. He's not nearly as uncomfortable as Lestrade made out. A day or two of rest and he'll be holding the reins of government as tightly as ever. I brought him cake. He loves cake," Sigerson/Holmes smiled smugly. "He loves cake and Lestrade, his lover, surely you remember him, John," said the fake red-head with a pointed sideways glance," "and he loves controlling everyone's life, especially mine," finished Sherlock/Sven, his smile gone. He glared at a CCTV camera; John followed his glance and looked up too.

"Is that camera following us? Your brother isn't watching you on camera?" asked John, staring at the camera and turning to walk backwards, leg pain forgotten.

"He watches me constantly. He'll be watching you too, now. Don't stare, John, the Mor-person is certainly watching you."

"You're staring."

"We can't both stare."

"I don't like being watched," muttered John. "Are they really watching me when I walk around?" He scanned the rooftops and windows again. He gazed suspiciously at an older man wearing a puffy coat that could easily conceal weapons...

"John, Mycroft has had you watched ever since you came to the Yard. I'd guess your Mor-person hacks into Mycroft's monitors, but he may have his own cameras in your flat," said the consulting detective grasping John's wrist and pulling him along.

"No. Wait," demanded John, pulling his arm free from the red-headed whirlwind, "What do you…No. You think they have cameras in m' flat? That's..that's…Oh My God! Do they have cameras in the loo? No, I won't stand for this. I took a bloody shower this morning. Were they watching me shower?"

Sherlock tried to picture what the soldier might look like in the shower hair dripping, skin glistening, hands full of suds sliding over his hard…

"Well dammit, Holmes or Sigerson or whatever you call yourself, are they watching me in the loo or not?" the angry blond had grabbed a fist full of Sven's leather jacket. "Well?" he shook the taller man once. He was surprisingly strong.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the CCTV camera that was pointed at them. Big brother would be interfering soon, if John kept up the threatening act.

"Calm yourself, John. Mycroft never puts cameras in the bathroom," well, almost never, Sherlock amended silently.

"Well," said the blond, letting go of the taller man's jacket. "Well, it's just that it's humiliating, that's all. So um, sorry. Sorry if I wrinkled your coat," he smoothed the jacket front down. It was really more of a caress. JOhn cleared his throat in embarrassment.

The former captain stepped back and stood in parade rest, his face turning a delightful shade of scarlet. John looked quite nice in scarlet, thought the disguised detective.

John pursed his lips, "You called me John."

"First names make more sense, if we're to be working together, John," said Sherlock, smirking and dragging the shorter man forward.

"Who said we're working together? You can't possibly work with me. That Irishman is a psychopathic killer. And he seems to think I'm his boyfriend, and you just said that he's probably watching me. You're endangering yourself right now, just by walking with me."

"Hence, my disguise."

"No. I don't see how that helps. If he goes after you as Sigerson, that's still you and you're still the one who'll get hurt, so no."

"Your needn't concern yourself over my safety," said Sherlock stiffly.

"I'll bloody well decide for myself who I choose to be concerned about, Sherlock," said Dr. Watson emphatically.

Sherlock smirked. John finally said his name, and John was concerned about him. Brilliant.

"Sven," said Sherlock, with a curl of his lips.

"What?"

"My name is Sven right now," said the faux Swede. "Do try to keep up, John."

John blinked, confused. What the hell was I talking about, wondered the doctor?

"You do want to stop the Mor-person, once and for all, don't you?" asked Sherlock, tilting his head. Maybe John _didn't_ want to catch the Irishman. Maybe he _did_ like the criminal Irishman, more than he let on.

"Yes, of course," snapped John, remembering the point of the argument, "and I'll coöperate fully with you and the police, but from a distance. You need to stay away…"

"I will not keep my distance. I will investigate, identify and locate the Mor-person. I will allow you to work with me, or I can just work on my own," said the consulting detective.

Oh God, the thought of the younger man running afoul of the dangerously psychotic Mor-person, no, MOR-WHATEVER, chilled John. At least, if we work together, maybe I can protect him, the soldier reluctantly decided.

"OK, we'll try it, but Sherlock…"

"Sven," corrected the smug ginger.

John pinched the bridge of his nose.

"OK, Sven…"

"And John, we'll have to part ways after you eat breakfast," said Sherlock. "We'll meet secretly in my hotel room this evening. I don't want to make the Mor-person suspicious."

"You're doing that on purpose, just to be irritating, aren't you?" asked John waspishly.

"Hmm?"

"You keep changing the subject and you insist on saying Mor-person, just to irritate me."

"Why would I do that," asked Sven/Sherlock, with wide-eyed innocence.

"How the hell should I know? Because you can? And don't you live in London? Why the hotel room?" asked the little blond, belligerently. His hands were balled into fists as he confronted Sherlock/Sven again. John Watson was cute, yes cute, when he was angry.

It was unfortunate, but there it was. The ex-soldier was cute. Sherlock was attracted to him; it was illogical and a waste of time to deny it any further.

At least, John Watson showed more promise than any of Sherlock's past interests. There was even a very remote chance he could have a real relationship with the former doctor who seemed to remain attracted to Sherlock despite his superior intellect and abrasive personality.

"I think we'll stop here for breakfast, John," said the tall ginger, standing in front of a busy café. "You seem rather tired and some rest seems to be in order. Although, I must say, that I was pleased to note that while your limp returned briefly, it has disappeared while we were walking," he held the door open for John. "Which begs the question, where is your cane, John?"

* * *

John had finished his rather large fry up. Sherlock had refused to order food of his own, but then stole John's bacon and a piece of buttered toast with jam.

The blond sniper had tried to tell Sherlock what had happened to him the day before. It took quite a while because Sherlock interrupted for clarification or to ask for detailed descriptions of people and places.

Needless to say, John's breakfast was cold by the time he finished it.

Unfortunately, the consulting detective did not care about the number of roses in Mor-whatever's underground bedroom, even though John had counted them three times.

After the rose debacle, Sherlock despaired of John's intellect out loud and repeatedly. Fortunately, the former army captain had quickly learned to block out Sherlock's insults in lieu of moving the conversation forward. Besides, one did not serve four tours in the military without developing a thick skin.

"So going backwards, it was while we were dancing; he put the moves on me," said John, quietly so no one else would hear.

"The moves?" asked Sherlock.

"Yeah, you know, he was, um, whispering in my ear, calling me his…his _pet _and um kissing me, and then I pulled away. And that made him mad. And he bit me. He bit my neck," John was scarlet once more. He reached up to rub over his wound. Thankfully, the shirt covered the plasters. "It bled quite a bit and probably should have been stitched up. Then again, it's got a high likelihood of infection, mouth's a dirty place, really, so leaving it open might be for the best. It's not as though scarring matters at this point in my life. It still hurts like the devil, let me tell you." John shook his last piece of toast at the pale man for emphasis.

Sherlock was silent, his full lips pressed together in a thin line. The psychopathic criminal bit John hard enough to draw blood. Clearly, John could not be allowed near that maniac again. This situation was already out of control.

"Right," said John, trying to lighten the detective's suddenly grim mood. "So the good news is that my tetanus is up to date; the bad news is that I probably should have taken rabies vaccine, yeah?" said John with a small smile.

"This isn't a laughing matter, John. You can't seriously consider him your boyfriend. He's a cruel and abusive man, and he's already hurt you. He's very, very dangerous, and you must stay away from him."

"Hello? I don't consider myself his boyfriend. I only went through with the, well you know," said John, waving his hand about vaguely. "Because your, um relative, insisted that he could catch him. For the record, I am not attracted to men who shoot their employees brains out for getting mud on the carpet. I'd just as soon not go near the psycho again without a sidearm and half the police force. He sipped his cold coffee and toyed with the doughnuts that he ordered to tempt the overly thin man in front of him. He pushed the plate closer to the fake redhead.

"In fact, continued John. "I've never even had a boyfriend, unless you consider last night a date and I don't and anyway it was under duress. Mor-whatever is not my boyfriend. I'm probably not even really gay."

"Then you would probably consider dating the right man, as long as he didn't gun down his employees,'" said the consulting detective, with a smirk. His brown eyes fixed on John, who was blushing yet again.

"So you're wearing brown contacts then. Very clever, sure fooled me," said the little blond, trying to change the subject. He looked up at Sherlock from under his frowning brow and then quickly lowered his eyes. John is still interested in me, then. For some unaccountable reason, that was pleasing to the consulting detective.

However, the former soldier seemed uncomfortable with his own homosexuality. That was displeasing.

"You're uncomfortable with your homosexuality," said Sherlock. It was a statement, not a question.

"What? No. I'm not, much. I mean I never really think about it," said John. "I've just never dated a man; I like women too. I mean; I like women."

"You're attracted to men," said Sherlock smirking. You're attracted to me. Look at those pupils dilate. And that blush…

"ME? I'm not, no, not since Uni, and I'm attracted to lots of women too," said John.

"You're also attracted to the Mor-person," said Sherlock coldly. Someone like that should never get his hands on John Watson. Never.

"That's different. That was not attraction. That was just…well, I can't help it if my body responds when someone….It wasn't attraction, not like with y'…It was just a physical response…And how the hell do you know anything about it, anyway," John ended with a mutter.

'I deduced it from your behavior today and the other night at Scotland Yard. I deduced it from your rambling and barely coherent statement about your activities last night," said the consulting detective.

"Now wait a minute, if my story rambled it was because you kept interrupting me," defended John.

'And now, when a virtual stranger is confronting your gender identity, you are more concerned about whether your discourse was concise or rambling," stated the ginger. "It _was_ rambling, I'm afraid."****************

"I can deduce that you've repressed your homosexuality for most of your life. Indeed, you've nearly convinced yourself that you were heterosexual since Uni. Your newly reawakened attraction to men has made you uncomfortable. Yet, you're not against homosexuality in principal. You were being open and honest when you said it was fine. I haven't seen any sign of strong religious values that would cause you to repress your sexuality… no something happened," The red-headed detective raised his steepled hands in front of his mouth. "Your sister is a lesbian. Ah, that struck a nerve, your hand is shaking. People disapproved. I would not be surprised if she faced bullying. Ah, your frown says yes, but your lowered brows indicate that there was more. Your family, no _your parents_ disapproved when your sister came out. In fact they disapproved violently, and you felt obligated to maintain the peace, and I strongly suspect that you felt obligated to support your sister at the same time. Yes, a difficult juggling act. It took all of your emotional reserves to satisfy both halves of your family. Hence you remain single and unattached despite your longing for a partner."

Sherlock looked out the window to street glistening in the light rain. He waited for the anger, the rejection; it was inevitable.

"That…was amazing," said John, hiding his tell-tale hand.

"Really, you think so?" said Sherlock, suddenly uncertain. He turned back to his companion.

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary," said John.

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off," answered Sherlock. His lips quivered into a smile as his companion chuckled, turning his head to keep himself from dissolving into giggles. They sat with matching grins for a few moments, before John cleared his throat.

"Your parent's reaction to Harry must have been difficult?" asked Sherlock, with unaccustomed tact.

John's boyish grin disappeared abruptly.

'Of course, it was difficult for Harry," agreed John. "My parents practically disowned her…"

"I meant that it was traumatic for you, John," said Sherlock, "After all, you changed the course of your life for them."

"It was hard for Harry, it wasn't a big deal for me. I handled it," said John, squaring his jaw. "Anyway, what difference does it make now?"

John stared at his cold coffee, hiding his stupid, stupid hand in his lap. The consulting detective did not reply but kept his eyes on the ex-soldier.

"Look, I took care of her, Harry, when she came out; I tried to, anyway. I fought the bullies at school until they left her alone. I stood up for her at home. I always protected her from him, from my father. After she left, I was always bloody there for her. I took care of her when she drank, and I cleaned her up enough to go back to school. You know, she's a successful bigwig at a bank now. So it's worked all worked out, yeah?"

"I took care of my parents too," continued John: he licked his lips. "They were devastated. I mean, it was their own fault; they drove her off, but they mourned. It was like Harry had died. My mother really needed me, especially when my father turned to drink. She relied on me to be strong and to be… to be the son she always wanted. So, I did what was necessary. No big deal. It's what a man does." John pursed his lips again and nodded as if agreeing with himself.

"How old were you?" murmured Sherlock.

"Old enough," said John into his coffee. "You know in Afghanistan, a boy becomes a man by thirteen or fourteen. That's true in lots of places. It's no big deal."

Really? No big deal, thought Sherlock. It made you who you are today. Ready to sacrifice yourself for almost anyone, even a stranger. It made you reject your sexuality for two decades. No big deal, indeed,

"OK, it really doesn't matter," added the ex-soldier quickly. "But, I suppose, well, maybe, sometimes I might be bisexual. It hasn't been an issue for years. All that time I was attracted to women."

"And I don't know why I'm telling all this to you, I mean; we've just met. I've never told any of this to anyone. Not even to…And now it bloody well doesn't matter. Who would want me now? No man or woman in their right mind would want an unemployed, wounded veteran with PTSD."

"The Mor-person wants you," said Sherlock

"My point exactly, Mor-whatever is not in his right mind," said John emphatically. He looked up, his blue eyes challenged the consulting detective.

I want you, conceded Sherlock, but his reply only echoed in the halls of his lonely mind palace.

"Right," said John Watson, briskly. He stood straight, as if at attention. Somehow this discussion made him even sadder that the consulting detective had rejected him. Not a big deal. I can handle it. "Right. I have your map; I will meet you at your hotel at 1800 hours. Thank you for breakfast, Sherlock Holmes."

**A/N** And thank you for reading my story. I'd love to hear your thoughts, comments, criticism and suggestions. I'd love to hear from you via a review or PM.

**Special thanks **to those who have reviewed my story including AiLoveS, ruvy91, EJ12212012, Wicked Winter, Quiet Time, InuChimera7410, power0girl, SamuelE8688 and Guests. Thank you for taking the time to review. Your reviews and comments are the main reason I stay motivated.

**Disclaimer**-I do not own the rights to SHERLOCK or the characters from the show.

_Speaking of the show, I read about rumors that PBS may run season 3 at the same time as the BBC. That would be too wonderful and so is probably not true. Still, we can hope. _:D


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N** no warnings **:D**

**Chapter 10**

Despite Sherlock's hand drawn map, or perhaps, because of it, John was at least 30 minutes late. He hated being late. It was unprofessional.

After slogging through half of London's back ways and alleys, John Watson slipped into the service entrance of the hotel. A tall blond wearing a waiter's jacket was impatiently bouncing on his heels and pointedly checking his wristwatch.

"It is half 6 o'clock, doctor. I would have thought the army might have drilled punctuality into its officers," hissed the disguised consulting detective. "Never mind, never mind," he continued, cutting off the former soldier's protests with dismissive waves of his hands.

John was hustled to a fifth floor hotel room and rudely shoved in. Sherlock Holmes slammed the door behind him and ripped off his blond wig and waiter's jacket. He wore tight black jeans and a form-fitting white button up shirt. He glared at the shorter blond and began pacing.

"I was becoming concerned, John. You were late, and you didn't answer your mobile. Why is that?" snapped the tall ginger.

"Your directions were a mess…" began John.

"I carry the map of London inside my head, John," interrupted the now redheaded detective. "I know every street and every ally, I know which fences can be climbed, which roofs may be utilized, as bridges. I know the subways, the open tenements, in short, my directions were perfect. Only an imbecile could get lost utilizing one of my maps."

"They were a mess and incomplete," reiterated John in his fighting stance, with feet apart, fists clenched and chin raised, to create the illusion of height. "In addition, your route took me past a couple of hoodlums intent on robbing me; I'm afraid I was busy outrunning them at the time when my phone rang.

"Ah, well you seem unharmed," said Sherlock cavalierly dismissing the issue as unimportant. He then flopped on the bed. "I've assembled the data that we have to date," he said and pointed to the wall, decorated with post it notes and a note scribbled directly on the wall.

John sighed and gave up the fight. Then he registered the scribbling on the wall.

"Sherlock, you can't just write on the wall," exclaimed John, removing his damp jacket and muddy boots. He was s bit sensitive about leaving tracks on carpets now.

"I ran out of post-its," whined the consulting detective. "Anyway, Mycroft will pay for any damages. I'm on an expense account."

"Well, bully for you," muttered John. "That's no reason to deface the wall. I'll just see if the front desk can send us up a whiteboard or some more post-its, shall I?" said John, picking up the phone and discussing arrangements with the concierge.

Afterwards he turned to the consulting detective, "Did you have a nice afternoon, Sherlock." asked the doctor, faux pleasantly.

"No. I was bored. What's in the sack?" asked the overgrown man-child.

John pulled a small red gift bag out of the sac. "Well, I'd like you to take this to your brother, please. You mentioned that your brother was fond of cake, so I bought him some teacakes. I also brought a cream that I make from aloe and arnica gel to help with his bruises. It's got some rosemary to make it smell nice." The doctor was a bit put off by the death glare that shot from the consulting detective's eyes, and he licked his lip nervously.

"Right, so, it's a treatment that I learned from an American doctor while I was in Afghanistan, and it works very well. I saved a little for myself too since I have some bruising," finished John, diffidently, as Sherlock sprang up to take the little bag proffered by the former army doctor.

"Why on Earth would you get a present for my fat, interfering brother?"

"Because I'm responsible for his injuries, Sherlock," said John, his brow creased with concern.

"He made you shoot him. He invoked your patriotism and sense of honor," exclaimed Sherlock indignantly. "Who ever heard of a sniper sending get well gifts to his target? Next you'll be wanting to send him a card."

John stared at the floor, his face blushing a light rose.

"Oh dear God, there's a get well card in the bag, isn't there? Charming," John crossed his arms defensively and seriously considered a hasty retreat.

Sherlock saw the blond's distress. The tall man folded back down on the bed with a massive sigh, "Well, I can see that you have your heart set on this, John, although I think it's a mistake to encourage him. Nevertheless, I will deliver the bag to him in the morning, _but_ I shall make very clear that none of this," he shook the bag, "has anything to do with me."

"Thank you Sherlock," replied the doctor with a small smile. "The directions for use of the cream are in the bag, with the, um, with the card. So the rest of this sack is for you, well both of us, really. I bought some beer and then I stopped for some take away. I hope you like Thai food, and I hope you don't mind eating out of boxes. I got an assortment of appetizers and…"

"Oh, I don't eat when I'm on a case John; it slows me down," interrupted the detective.

"That's ridiculous. If by case, you mean finding Mor-whatever, then it's going to take more than a day or two…"

"And you haven't taken in to account that I am now working the case and will solve it much faster than you can possibly understand with your limited imagination," snapped Sherlock.

"And," continued John. "It is unhealthy and bad for your mental acuity to skip so many meals."

"I have gone three and four days without eating while on a case," said the stroppy detective.

"And there goes the theory that you and your massive genius always solve your cases instantly." said John putting appetizers on a napkin and bringing it over to the sulking genius. "You know, you might have solved them more quickly if your brain had been adequately nourished.

"Finally, you might consider the fact that I went out of my way to bring you dinner. I spent almost my last cent on it and defended said dinner with my life against the two knife-wielding thugs who tried to steal it," said John. "Now please eat something, or I shall leave and share my take-away with the first person who doesn't reject me out of hand."

"Fine," said the petulant ginger. Somehow, the ridiculous little soldier made him feel guilty. He stuffed half of a spring roll into his mouth.

They ate in silence. John savored his pad Thai and Sherlock picked at his food, while staring at the army food bully.

"You needn't throw the food away, Sherlock. There's a mini-refrigerator where we can store the leftovers," said John.

"John, don't open the…"

"Are those hands? Human hands?" John turned to look at the madman, who had leapt up a few seconds too late.

"They are for an experiment I plan to run tonight. Molly, who works at the morgue, gave them to me," explained Sherlock.

"Wha kind of… experiment?" asked John, his voice pitched just a tiny bit higher than normal.

"The effects of unchlorinated water and various concentrations of chlorinated on the rates of decay of the human integument," said Sherlock. "I have a case that depends on just such an analysis. I doubt you'd understand."

"No, can I understand it, thank you. I did complete medical training and managed to qualify as a trauma surgeon, despite my limited mental capacity," said John, once more on his dignity.

"And is there a reason why this experiment cannot be run in a laboratory?" asked John.

"I prefer to work at home. It's more convenient. I don't have to interact with dull people. There are fewer interruptions. I can work in my pajamas. And it prevents boredom," intoned the detective.

"Right. I shall commandeer the top shelf for my leftovers and your specimens may take the bottom shelf."

Fortunately the white board, markers and a pack of post-its were delivered before the mad-scientist could protest further.

While the doctor set up the white board, Sherlock took the post-its off of the wall and attached them to the board. Only the consulting detective could arrange the yellow stickies properly, so for now, John was relegated to observation and taking notes.

"Tell me about this, um data map you have, Sherlock," asked John as the lanky detective drew arrows connecting some of the notes.

"You wouldn't grasp the interconnectivity of the segments. Now, please let me think, John," said the redhead.

In the center was a note saying _underground offices. Parking garage._ Other notes shingled down. _How many rooms? Pumps? Vents? In London?_

"Of course it's in London, Sherlock. The vents ran continuously. I didn't hear any pumps but I wasn't listening for them. I saw three rooms for sure not including the loos. There was clearly a kitchen and Mor-whatever implied that he had his own bedroom on the premises. So there must be at least five rooms but I bet there's more. I mean Moran and the goons must have a room to lurk in." said John. Sherlock ignored him, but moved a note to the center, it read '_underground parking garage?'_

"Yes, the parking garage was underground. I told you it was underground. I could easily hear when we entered the parking garage. Then we went round and round and down five times so that would make it the 2nd or 3rd sublevel, wouldn't it?"

Getting no response John made a new post-it note. _2__nd__ or 3__rd__ sublevel_ and stuck it over Sherlock's note. He rewrote another note saying, _yes the Batcave is in London._

"You really are an irritating git," said John. "I'll just write out a few more notes for you. _Mor-whatever might be a vampire_. _Mor-whatever is psychopathic, Can't rule out that Mor-whatever is psychotic, dance music sounded like old-fashioned record player, music: swing and jazz like Body and Soul and What Will I Do, wears Westwood Suits, Likes silk sheets (black), likes blood-red roses, likes bloody steaks, likes my blood (vampiric delusion?), claims he killed his other boyfriends. _

"I'll just put these up? Yeah?" John arranged them to his liking. "Well I see you have a street map of London. OK. I'll just draw in approximately where the um, the um, where the Batcave is, OK? I have to figure out where Lady Godiva's coffee shop is and The Boutique by Bree, because that's where Hope took off my blindfold. I got their addresses this afternoon…Hey, you in a trance or something? "

"Thinking," said Sherlock, moving his hands in front of his face in a strange fashion.

"O…Kay?"John nodded with pursed lips. "Thinking. 'Cause you're a genius, right? You know that reminds me, I met this cabbie whose kids are geniuses. At least he said that they were…Well. I got another note for you, no, make that two notes, _taxi driver =Jefferson Hope (also psychopath), taxi driver has two kids (proper geniuses)"_

"Right, well then, here's the map, and I figure that Mor-whatever's Batcave has to be in a thirty minute radius of that coffee shop. I'm not sure how to figure out how far out is thirty minutes, so you have to figure it out. Unless, we test-drive the roads there. Yeah. Well, I don't have a car and I couldn't afford a taxi," John looked at the map that he had just pinned to the wall. Probably shouldn't have stuck pins in the Well, Mycroft Holmes can foot the bill, right? Right.

And so, my crush is married to his work, _and_ he apparently becomes catatonic. Great.

"And so I'm off, OK, mate? I'm going to look for the vending machines and I guess i'll get some ice. I'll be back soon though, and I'll drop some ice down your back. It'll be an experiment. Yeah?" suggested John.

John waved his hand in front of the detectives face and got no reaction. "Right. Still thinking in there? Yeah? I'll just… give you some… time then?" John tousled the detectives wavy red hair.

"Can you even hear me? Anyone in there?" John licked his lips. He leaned down suddenly and kissed the detective's cheek. Then John beat a hasty retreat to the relative safety of the hotel's utility room.

**A/N**

The next Chapter will be up in a day or two, promise. Despite being busy in his mind palace, Sherlock _will_ react to John's little display of affection.

Thank you to all of you who stick with me and read this story.

Special thanks to everyone who reviews my fiction; I am truly grateful. Nothing makes me happier than when I hear from one of you. Thank you to InuChimera7410, EJ 12212012, ruvy91, power0girl, Kyuubigurl74, anyrei1, Wicked Winter, Guest, and SamuelE8688.

**Disclaimer **I do not own the rights to anything SHERLOCK.


	11. Chapter 11

**No Worries, no warnings except for silliness mixed with the usual angst and, yes, swearing. So have fun reading it; you know you love angst.**

**Chapter 11**

As a rule, Sherlock did not like to be touched. Sometimes it was almost painful. Sometimes it made his skin crawl. It was usually just annoying. But, over the years he'd grown to tolerate or even crave the touch of a select few like Victor or Mrs. Hudson.

And Sherlock had wondered what it would be like to touch John Watson. So when John ran his fingers through his hair, Sherlock was only mildly surprised that it was not unpleasant. Indeed, he would have to admit that it was rather calming.

And then John kissed his face. And that was very pleasant. John's lips were warm and soft. Perhaps the Work could wait for just a bit.

Sherlock blinked and looked around the empty room. "John? John?" The little blond was gone.

Sherlock studied the room. The soldier's boots were still by the door, and there was no sign of a struggle. The key card was missing, so John left of his own volition and intended to return. He would return for his boots and jacket if nothing else.

No doubt, Sherlock had inadvertently irritated or insulted the soldier. It was inevitable. But then, why the kiss? It was too chaste to be the product of simple it was definitely a kiss, a physical sign of affection that was given only to the closest of companions, at least in the English culture of the 21st century. Yet John was a soldier with trust issues and unlikely to distribute tokens of affection to just anyone, especially another man.

Sherlock sighed because he could not solve the conundrum. It didn't help, that he wanted John to kiss him again, and in a less chaste fashion. Then the detective had a worrisome thought; what if the idiot stumbled into the Mor-person's clutches again.

Sherlock got up to pace. Then the consulting detective observed the post-it filled white board.

"No, No, No! My post-its are out of order! Some of these aren't even my post-its. Who is Jefferson Hope?. …What is the Batcave? Gibberish! John!" yelled the consulting detective again. "John!"

* * *

John stumped back to the room with ice but no crisps. Typically, the vending machine ate his coins and then withheld the coveted bag of crisps.

"Bloody Sherlock can just come out of his bloody trance and deduce a plan to either get me my bloody money back or get me my bloody crisps," muttered John Watson.

Tonight sucked. It was an improvement over last night in that tonight's mad man didn't kill people (so far), nor had he made graphic promises to torture, rape or kill John, sometime in the very near future.

Otherwise tonight was a bust. They were no nearer to finding Mor-whatever. Dinner was a near failure. And as for his rekindled hopes of romance, well, it was stupid to try to resurrect a corpse, now wasn't it? And lets not forget that John had apparently bored the genius into a near coma. Smooth Watson, real smooth.

It was time for plan B. Leave the hotel, grab Harry and run for…well, run really far away from London and crazy geniuses.

John fumbled at the door lock. He slid in the card and got a red light He turned the card over and tried again without success. He jammed the card in and out and rattled the handle, as he muttered about bloody new-fangled electronic keys and why the fuck can't they just use regular keys.

The door swung open and an apparently agitated apparition yanked him in. John stared at Sherlock's pale face and the waves of red hair that were scattered wantonly over his head. Sherlock must have been running his hands through his hair. John was so engrossed that he stumbled, barely preventing the ice bucket from dumping all over the handsome redhead.

"Where have you been?" demanded Sherlock, scanning the shorter man for evidence of fresh injuries.

"Getting crisps."

"I don't see any crisps," growled Sherlock, through gritted teeth; why was John so obtuse?

John sighed. No, he did not have any crisps; he was too disheartened to explain.

"And you had the key, John. Why didn't you use the key?"

"I had a disagreement with the lock and keycard. I was losing that argument when you finally opened the door. Here's the ice."

"I don't want any ice," Sherlock all but shouted. He took the ice bucket and nearly threw it at the wall, except John was scowling and making fists again. Not good. The consulting detective did not wish to argue with the little blond right now.

Sherlock banged the bucket down on the table, knocking several ice cubes out onto the floor.

"Sherlock!" sighed John. He bent to pick up the ice before it ruined the carpet. He really didn't want to ruin the carpet; something bad might happen.

"John, forget the ice," said the genius. "John!"

John stopped and looked up, "What?"

"Why did you leave? I was…worried," admitted Sherlock.

"Crisps, I wanted some crisps," he held his hand up to forestall the imminent tirade. "The vending machine ate my money and wouldn't give me my crisps. Anyway, I told you that I was stepping out, but you were in some trance or something. Weren't you?" he asked, suddenly nervous. Oh God, he shouldn't have kissed the mad berk. The doctor shoved his left hand into his pocket before it could tremble and get him into any more trouble. Stupid Hand.

"John, did you, ah…kiss me before you left?"

"No. Yes. Well, no, of course not," stammered, John looking to the side and blushing. Obviously lying, and lying badly, the detective quickly deduced.

"Well you were very quiet and actually you were sorta comatose and I was…checking you…yes, checking for a fever." John smiled, because that was an excellent explanation.

Except the consulting detective wasn't buying the excellent explanation. The ex-soldier's smile slowly faded. Change the subject.

"So, I added some notes to your board," said John, speaking rapidly, (actually you're blithering, said a small voice in his head). "And I put your map up on the wall, with the pins. You did say that your brother would foot the bill. And so I figured we'd start at the red dot and move outwards…"

"John," said Sherlock, his voice suddenly gelid. "I am accustomed to working alone, and _no one_ ever interferes with my data. Your additions are no doubt well-meant but will only obstruct the Work. For instance, what are these doodles on the board?"

"That is a car, obviously a taxi," said John embarrassed. "That arrow led to the note saying _unidentified taxi (cab-false plates)._ The picture is a graphic reminder that the arrow leads to the taxi notes."

"I have the information stored in my mind palace. I know exactly where each note belongs. I do not require reminders, graphic or otherwise," snapped Sherlock. "Furthermore, these are not my post-its. They do not belong in my mind palace. I cannot allow useless data to clutter my brain's hard drive. The cabbie's children? Proper geniuses? Who cares? And who is Jefferson Hope and…" Sherlock froze with parted lips, as the data coalesced.

"Oh God, are you going into a trance again? Are you subject to fits?" asked John, stepping forward to catch the taller man if he should fall.

The detective stepped forward and placed a finger on John's lips. The soldier froze at the touch.

Sherlock's mouth rounded, "Oh. Ohhh. Hope was the cab driver who brought you away from the Mor-person. John, _you_ got the driver's name. He has children, and you feel they may be significant too. Why? Why are they significant?" Sherlock's keen eyes looked obliquely at the shorter man.

"Well, Hope said he was putting them through school and that money was tight," said John, uncertain whether to back away from the looming detective. Those elegant, tapering fingers were still just inches from John's lips. "He, um the cabbie, said something about '_our_ sponsor', and so I figured he was working regularly for Mor-whatever. You know making extra money for his kids. And, yeah, he drove me two times yesterday, well the day before since it's well after midnight now. Or maybe it was still yesterday since it was like 0300 hours..."

"I shall track him down and question him," interrupted Sherlock, who abruptly began pacing with his fingers tapping against his own lips.

"No," John pursed his lips and shook his head. "No. That man is a proper psychopath. That's what he is, Sherlock, a proper psychopath. He is too dangerous. You cannot meet with him alone."

"Of course I can. Tomorrow, I'll find his dispatcher and get his schedule. I'll call for a taxi. I'll be nothing more than another passenger. It's simple," said Sherlock distractedly. He was rearranging the data in his mind palace and, just to be safe, opening up a separate, new room for John. The room would naturally be furnished in shades of ultramarine, the color of John's eyes.

"It's too dangerous to go alone," said John. He stood feet apart and arms crossed. Ah, thought Sherlock, the little soldier was quite adamant.

"Fine. I'll have Lestrade or one of the Yard's finest accompany me," Sherlock lied. "And no, I do not suffer from seizures. I have a Mind Palace. It is a mental construct in which I store all my data for easy retrieval. The various rooms store different data sets, which can be retrieved, sorted, or shifted as needed. Unimportant or expired data can be deleted by removing it from my mind palace. When I am working in my mind palace, I am concentrating deeply, so I do not talk or move. I also do not wish to be disturbed when I am thinking so deeply. You will simply have to become accustomed to my habit."

"What if you get an important phone call? What if there's an emergency?" asked John. "What if you're attacked? You could be attacked by a psychotic killer, with vampiric delusions. Would you just sit there doing your mind palace thing and let the psychopathic-vampire kill you?"

"John, what is this obsession you have about vampires? I noticed it written on the post-it notes and you even drew a crude face with fangs nest to the arrow leading to the Person Whose Name Begins with MOR."

"His name is MOR-WHATEVER, not Person Whose Name blah, blah, blah," said John, his voice raised. "And Mor-whatever is mad, Sherlock. He bit me. He _bit_ me, and then he licked my blood off his fingers, like a kid licking the icing from a bowl. What kind of a person does that? No, I'll tell you what kind of person does that, a sick, crazy, evil person. And he reminds me of a vampire, and he is certainly a psychopath and very likely a psychotic. He could easily have delusions of being a vampire."

"John, I make deductions based on facts not wild suppositions. I take all available facts and then create a theory that fits the data. You are making a hypothesis and then trying to fit the facts in backwards and so getting the wrong results. I don't expect you to understand, few people can. Suffice it to say, these are my notes and it's my mind palace. The post-its on Hope can stay; his name and his statement about his children are facts. The vampire post-its go," said Sherlock tearing up two of John's stickies, and dropping the fragments to the floor. "In fact all these notes on the Mor-person are useless. Who cares if he likes red roses or bloody steaks or silk sheets? What's this?" Sherlock stopped and looked first at the note and then down at his seething soldier, "_he says he killed his old boyfriends_?" Sherlock read aloud; he managed to somehow look paler than usual.

"Yeah. He said his other boyfriends were cowardly or something, so he had to kill them," said John glaring, "I'm guessing some of them freaked out when he got psycho on them, or maybe it was the physical abuse and threats. _Maybe_, they didn't like it when he went _vampire_ on them. Anyway, he said I was made of sterner stuff. Like I want any of his nasty compliments. Under the circumstances, I did not press the issue."

The consulting detective worried at his lower lip. John's danger was more acute than Sherlock originally suspected. What if the Person Whose Name Begins with Mor kills all of his boyfriends, like a black widow spider. Fascinating... and entirely too dangerous for John Watson.

"No John, it was for the best, that you did not question that man on the topic of his _boyfriends_," said Sherlock checking the remainder of John's sticky-notes with care. Sherlock could not afford to miss any notes like the last one. John had collected lots of useless data, but there were some pearls of information mixed in with the dross.

"John, no doubt you think that you are helping, but you must let me decide which data goes up on the board. Most of these notes are pointless and distracting…"

"You already admitted that Jefferson Hope's name is useful," said John defensively. His arms were crossed again; he held his left hand under his arm, just in case.

"Yes. But the rest are not data; they are groundless opinions. You were blindfolded while you were in the parking garage, how can you know how far down…"

"Give me some credit, Sherlock. I am not actually a complete moron. I paid attention the second time I was brought into Mor-whatever's Batcave. There were five tight turns. In a regular parking garage you go down the ramp turn and then down again and that's one level. We went down five ramps. Second or third sublevel," said John, his arms folded tightly against his chest.

"Very well, John. But how could you know that you were still in London," said Sherlock, replacing the parking garage sticky-note on the board.

"Because I timed it," said John.

"John, can you measure time without the aid of a timepiece?" asked Sherlock, impressed.

"Well, no. No, I sang songs to myself," said John uncomfortably.

Sherlock flopped back onto the bed in apparent despair. He was less impressed; every person on Earth really was an idiot, except for Sherlock of course.

In spite of the consulting detectives antics, John pressed forward with his explanation. "Anyway it was about thirty minutes from the Batcave to the coffee shop which is located in central London. The Batcave can be no more than thirty minutes from that address although it could be much less if Hope drove in circles."

"John, be reasonable. Songs vary in length of course, but each song can be sung at different tempos, stanzas can be forgotten...'

"I sang the same song to myself nine times from the time we left the garage before I was allowed to remove my blindfold. I sing it regularly, and I don't forget the words," huffed John. "I took the blindfold off in front of a coffee shop called Lady Godiva's. There was a boutique with paper umbrellas named for Bree, and those two shops are located right here on the map. See I circled the address with a yellow highlighter," said John, loudly tapping his finger on the map in exasperation.

Sherlock's mouth made a perfect "O". He stared at the doctor as if he had just sprouted wings. John was not a _complete_ idiot after all.

John had the consulting detective's full attention and, if his parted lips were any clue, John had impressed the genius. John was so pleased that he forgot his irritation.

"Look, the song's playtime is 3.33 minutes. 3.33 times 9 is just shy of thirty minutes," continued John in excitement. "So the Batcave is somewhere within a 30 minute radius of this intersection. The thing is, I can't figure out is how far away from this spot you can get by driving for thirty minutes in the middle of the night, but it certainly still places the Batcave in London."

"John Watson, that was…very resourceful. In fact, it's brilliant" Sherlock studied the map. He began making a dotted line that roughly encircled the Lady Godiva coffee shop.

"This is just an estimate of the perimeter, John. I can estimate that it will take thirty minutes to get this far on this route and here again... Tomorrow, I will have to arrange for a few drivers to actually measure the maximum distance that a car can go in thirty minutes. We also need a better estimate of the time it takes for you to sing the song. I will time it, we will need you to repeat it several times to ensure accuracy. Start singing, John." Sherlock held up his watch. "Start now, John…. Well, what are you waiting for?"

"Um, I was singing it in my head. Like I did in the taxi," said John.

"No, I need to hear it to see if you maintain the same tempo through out," his tone of voice clearly said, IDIOT. "Besides, I can hardly time it, if I cannot hear when you start and stop," said Sherlock. "Now, please start…out loud."

"I, um, I need a drink," said John, grabbing a beer. This was just too damn embarrassing. That's what I get for trying to impress him. "I don't suppose you want anything to drink? No. Of course not." John quickly downed half the can. "I could really use some crisps," he added mournfully.

"Drinking, John? And your sister an alcoholic?" chided Sherlock impatiently, as John slowly and deliberately drank down his beer. "John, you are holding up the investigation," he whined.

John quickly finished the beer and took out a second, while Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Right. I can't sing. I have no voice and it's just a stupid, repetitive song, that I learned in Afghanistan, OK? It's nothing special, right?"

"Well, do start, John," demanded the consulting detective.

"John."

"John!"

John stared, mesmerized, at the consulting detective as he would a snake, "I would not be so stoned, if my Mary were. And I don't think I'd have phoned you if my Mary were here"* whispered John hoarsely, only half singing.

Sherlock slowly tilted his head, as the song went on. Mary. Mary this, Mary that, if Mary were here. Of course, The Loss. John liked sad music because he lost someone. Mary could only be a girlfriend who, judging from the song, left John broken-hearted. Where is this wretched Mary, and how could she possibly do this to John?

John stared at the wall, intoning the song steadily, "I'm drunk and seeing double, but my Mary's not here. Once again be the friend that you've been and take me in. Please take me in."*

" 3 minutes and 13 seconds. You need to repeat it John," said Sherlock.

John sang it again and then again.

"Very well, John. It took you an average of 3 minutes and 10 seconds to run through the song in its entirety. You were with in ten seconds each time. So that is encouraging. We can use it to make an estimate of the maximum distance that the Mor-person's hidden lair should be from the coffee shop. We should repeat the experiment tomorrow just to be sure, and then I'll calculate the standard deviation. However, I will adjust the map, based on this preliminary data. I will find the locations that have sub basements and parking garages that are located within this perimeter. I will also have questioned Jefferson Hope. I assume that Mary was your girlfriend, perhaps your fiancée," Sherlock changed topic without warning. "I presume she left you shortly before you were invalided home from Afghanistan, and you remain in love with her to this day."

Sherlock was pleased to note that his own voice remained steady and, in fact, unemotional. He was merely interested because John was an interesting person and part of an interesting case.

The former army doctor gaped at the sudden ambush, "You... Sherlock Holmes, are very amazing and very nosy," said John who had downed both beers, rather too quickly.

"I have been endlessly informed that I push too hard. If that is the case, you must tell me, and I shall endeavor to be less_ nosy_," said the consulting detective. "Well?" he asked, pushing.

"Well, what?" asked John.

"Did I get it right?" he asked, peering over his steepled hands at the ex-soldier slouched in the chair.

John snorted. "You don't give up, do you?" The younger man kept his brown eyes on John. Fine.

"Mary was my girlfriend. We never bothered to get engaged," said John, his chin raised belligerently. "To borrow your phrase, we were both 'married to our work'. Also she didn't leave me; she was blown up by an IED almost three years ago. It's over and done with."

Sherlock studied John, and the silence grew uncomfortable. Worse and WORSE. He could deal with an unfaithful lover. John could perhaps be enticed to forget a woman who abandoned him. But Mary was dead, a virtual martyr. Sherlock hated her with a virulence that surprised even him. Why did John have to cling to her memory so tenaciously? Sherlock could hardly compete with the ghost of a beautiful martyr.

And of course, she would have been beautiful; John deserved nothing less. _This_, this was why Sherlock refused to indulge in emotions. Hearts were always broken.

On top of everything else, Sherlock's deductions while close, had been off the mark. Clear evidence that Sherlock's burgeoning emotions, interfered with his ability to reason.

It would be best to just let the entire matter lie. John Watson was a case, nothing more and nothing less. It was fortunate that Sherlock had seen the pitfalls early, thus avoiding any Victor-esque debacles.

John caught himself biting a fingernail. He hated when he did that. It was an obvious sign of stress, a show of weakness that enemies could take advantage of. It looked stupid too. And John Watson really did not want to look stupid in front of the handsome genius. John shoved his hands in his pockets while the consulting detective stared at him.

Dammit, the man had completely punched through John's defenses in just a couple of days. He already knew about Mary. Almost no one knew about Mary. Bloody hell.

Mary was gone, and she had never wholly belonged to John anyway. Mary and John were friends. and they shared a deep attraction for one another.

It wasn't so much that Mary was gone that had eaten away at John for so long, it was the way she was taken. It was a waste! It was just so _wrong_ that a good woman ended up dead for no reason. Hell there had been almost nothing left of her to bury. There was nothing left to show that she had even been alive. So what was the point of living in the first place?

John did not want to talk about Mary, especially not to Sherlock Holmes. He didn't want to talk about his old relationships to someone, well someone he fancied.

Mary would not have begrudged John a relationship with Sherlock Holmes. Mary was not the problem. Christ, the problem was that Sherlock was 'married to his work'. Maybe he would allow John to be his friend? That was better than nothing, at least John could admire the man and they could be mates. Right? It was a bit ridiculous for John to be so disappointed over this whole Sherlock thing.

John hated looking ridiculous. That genius was probably making the deductive leap right now. He's probably ready to say," _Well,John, you cared for Mary and that song shows you are feeling romantic and lonely and thus I can deduce you are attracted to me, but, sorry, old chap (_emphasis on old_), but I'm unattainable. I'm too good for you, John. I'm married to my work, John. Don't be an idiot, John." _God, I am an idiot, thought John.

It looked like the redhead was going to say something. He was about to deduce John and then reject him, _one more time_. Nope, not doing that again. Quick, change the subject.

"So, you've got a list of what you plan to do tomorrow. What do you want me to do?" asked the ex-soldier to break the silence.

"There's nothing that you can do, John. We can meet again tomorrow; if you like," said Sherlock.

"Right," said John, thinking that he knew a dismissal when he heard one.

"Look, uh, you said your brother was the British Government. Can he? I mean, I'd like to ask a favor. Can he have Harry, my sister, put in some sort of protective custody? And maybe her wife, Clara too? The two are separated, but Mor-whatever has threatened Harry and might threaten Clara too. Your brother, um, Mycroft, said something about paying me, and I don't want the money. Not from him and certainly not from Mor-whatever. Instead of the money, I want Harry kept safe from that psycho Irishman."

"Yes," agreed Sherlock quickly, "that might be an excellent idea. You should go too…"

"Don't be daft. I will not go into hiding of any sort," said John. "But, d'you think your brother would give me back my gun? So that's two favors I'd like to ask, I suppose."

Sherlock nodded absently. Going into that mind palace trance again, guessed John. Well the man isn't interested, and it's past time for me to go. At least that disastrous kiss was forgotten.

John slid his feet into his boots. He did not want the disastrous kiss to be forgotten.

"Sherlock, you said you can tell when I'm lying?" asked John pulling his jacket on.

The consulting detective nodded. At least the berk wasn't comatose yet.

"Then you already know that I was lying," added the soldier, softly, his hand on the door handle and his eyes on his boots. "So, yeah, I did kiss you. I did it because I wanted to; I did it because…dammit, I like you. And if you don't want me to do it again, I promise I won't. I know, you told me you were married to your work. I understand. I hope, very, very much, that we can still be friends." John finished in a rush.

The ex-army doctor tried to open the door, but, of course, it seemed jammed. He struggled with the handle.

So much for not looking ridiculous, thought John.

**TBC almost immediately**

**A/N ******* from 'If My Mary Were Here', by Harry Chapin

**Thank you** for reading my fic. I hope you will consider sending me your thoughts, criticisms, suggestions via the review button or via PM. I'd love to hear from you.

**Thank you** to those who _follow_ and _favorite_ my story. (I know, i know, favorite is not a verb.) A special thanks goes out to the reviewers from chapter 10 ruvy91, EJ12212012, Lady Allen, anyrei1, powere0girl, Wicked WInter, Kyuubigurl74, SamuelE8688, InuChimera7410 and AiloveS

**Disclaimer** i (the party of the first part) absolve myself of any copyright infringement by saying that I so not own the rights to SHERLOCK and I have no intention on profiting from SHERLOCK... except for the fun that I am having writing this fic and sharing it with others (the parties of the second part, because wouldn't it be fun if we all got together for a big fanfic party?). Yeah, it almost looks official...NOT. But seriously, I don't have any rights to SHERLOCK.


	12. Chapter 12

_**A/N**_This was originally part of chapter 11, but the chapter was too long and didn't like uploading to FF. So I was forced to break it up, that was the bad news. The good news is that there is only one day between chapter postings.  
**Warnings**-none except fluff and stuff

_**Previously**__: John slid his feet into his boots. He did not want the disastrous kiss forgotten._

"_Sherlock, you said you can tell when I'm lying?" asked John pulling his jacket on._

_The consulting detective nodded. At least the berk wasn't comatose._

"_Then you already know that I was lying," added the soldier softly, his hand on the door handle and his eyes on his boots. "So, yeah, I did kiss you. I did it because I wanted to; I did it because…dammit, I like you. And if you don't want me to do it again, I promise I won't. I know, you told me you were married to your work. I understand. I hope, very, very much, that we can still be friends." John finished in a rush. _

_The ex-army doctor tried to open the door but of course it seemed jammed. He struggled with the handle._

_So much for not looking ridiculous, thought John._

**Chapter 12**

John wiggled the lock in desperation. This can't be happening. Please, please don't hate me, Sherlock. And why won't this bloody door open?

Sherlock stood up, straightening each of his sleeves, and then studied the man fumbling at the door. "It was not unpleasant, John. However…"

Oh God, here it comes, the rejection. God, what is wrong with this door? Just open. Just let me the fuck out of here. He wrenched desperately at the stupid handle.

"However, my research indicates that most couples find greater pleasure in the cooperative exchange of oral caresses," said Sherlock, tentatively.

What? John was flummoxed. Oral caresses? Cooperative what?

"What? What? What are you going on about now?" asked John consulting detective, with the handsome cheekbones, was much, much closer. His lips were parted almost as if they wanted to be kissed, which was ridiculous. John swallowed with difficulty.

"This is not my area, John Watson. I am extraordinarily ill prepared when it comes to relationships. And I will not be able to coddle you, or simper over you with poetry or cheap song lyrics," warned the redhead looming over him.

"O-Kay?" said John confused, Sherlock was very, very close and biting his lower lip. Wait, why the hell would I want to be coddled? "Who the hell said I wanted to be coddled anyway?" snapped John. "And simpering?"

John fumed silently for a moment, his brow deeply creased. Then his eyes widened, as he looked up to Sherlock's face. John licked his lip, nervously. The soldier tipped his head, and his eyes began to narrow. It was cute to watch John's cognitive functions display across his expressive face.

"Wait," said John, his blue eyes suspicious under his renewed frown. "Does this mean…can we? Um, do you…"

Sherlock bent down and pressed his lips to John's. In seconds, he had John pressed back against the door as the consulting detective exchanged oral caresses with the former army doctor.

Sherlock pulled back. The shorter blond leaned against the door with his pupils blown wide and his breath rapid and uneven. John's attractive blush had returned; indeed, he was a lovely shade of carmine. And his reddened lips smiled. The experiment was a success.

John tentatively took hold of Sherlock's larger hand, it quickly engulfed his own. John's eyes moved from their joined hands and locked on the flushed lips of the tall redhead. John wholeheartedly approved of oral caresses.

"Um, so can we give the oral caress another go? Or would that …"

The tall, younger man slammed into him again. The oral caress was a bit clumsy and rough, but passionate. John was fine with that. Still...

John tilted his head and slowing their kisses, controlling them. His tongue ran across the redhead's Cupid's bow. He kissed the corner of Sherlock's mouth and tracked his lips across Sherlock's cheek. Having never snogged a bloke before, the rough stubble on Sherlock's cheek was a shock.

It was brilliant!

He ran his lips over the stubble again and then rubbed his cheek against that stubble. He shivered; what an amazing sensation!

Sherlock had either just been warming up, or he was a very fast learner. He slowly kissed the corners of John's mouth, and ran his tongue across John's lips. John opened his mouth, and Sherlock's tongue entered to plunder the soldier's mouth. The kiss was deep and hard. Their tongues tangled, as John moaned into the taller man's mouth.

John brought his hands up fisting into Sherlock's fine cotton shirt. He dragged the tall man close. "Sherl," he moaned again as their lips locked.

As if the kissing were not enough, thought the detective, John was moaning. It sent electric chills straight down Sherlock's spine. And then John tried to say his name; John moaned _his _name. John clung to him as if he really wanted Sherlock. The consulting detective reveled in John's wanton response to him.

Had that Mary person ever enjoyed this aspect of John? Never mind, if she had; she never would again. He felt sorry for that Mary person now, well, a little bit sorry, a very little bit. Mostly Sherlock just wanted to catalogue these sensations. He hastily opened a new suite of rooms in his mind palace for all the new John Watson data. A single room was simply not going to be enough for the ex-soldier now.

He memorized the different sensations. He debouched the soldier's mouth, while his long-fingered hands explored. Blood scoured Sherlock's veins as he felt John's firm muscles bunching and tensing under his skin. The detective's long fingers caressed, probed and he mentally named John's arm muscles, biceps, and triceps, up to the deltoid, back down to the brachioradialis. Then there was the intoxicating taste and smell of this soldier... Sherlock breathed John Watson, in like oxygen.

No intimate encounter had ever felt like this. Of course, in the past, Sherlock had generally avoided kissing with his barely adequate sexual partners. Now he was glad, very glad that he waited to share kisses with John; it was if they two had just discovered this secret form of communication, unknown to any others.

Sherlock slowly dragged the tip of his tongue along the soldier's chapped lips. A copper flavor hit his mouth as he gently sucked over John's split lip. Entering John's mouth he tasted a sweet mixture of beer, tea and Thai food. His hand combed through the soft, short hair on John's head. His other hand ran up John's jaw, not very rough. John had shaved before coming to the hotel.

Of course, he shaved. I'm an Idiot. Consciously or unconsciously, John had treated this as a date all along! Realizing that John had desired him fueled his attraction even more. He wanted to taste, to touch, to possess all of this man.

Oh yes, this…this was better than drugs. This was better than anything, ever. And Sherlock would want him, need him like a drug. He couldn't allow John to ever leave; he could never allow anything to happen to his soldier.

His hand wandered down the soldier's neck and under his shirt. And there was the dressing under his fingers, and it was damp, wet. Sherlock stopped; he pulled John's cable knit sweater down roughly and yanked the shirt open.

"Sherlock? What the…" John was panting, and he gripped tightly with both hands onto the detective's shirt, to keep from falling.

"Dammit, John, you're bleeding. Your wound, it's still bleeding! What the hell did that bastard do to you?" snarled the detective, his passion turning into fury. That Mor-bastard would pay for hurting his soldier.

"I told you; the lunatic bit into me. It'll take some time to heal, is all," John panted, trying to crane his neck down to look at the dressing. "Look, it's just seeping a bit. It'll be fine. I've had lots worst" the blond smiled up with swollen, pink lips. "It's no…"

"Do _not _say, 'it's no big deal', John Watson. Just don't," said Sherlock. His fingers circled the injury lightly; his mind churned. What were the chances for infection? Should he force John to go to hospital? Should he force John into protective custody? Could he force John? John was fairly strong and quite stubborn... Could he trick John?

John drew Sherlock's attention back to him when he ran his calloused hand up over his long neck and pale face. John wanted the detective to look back at him, to touch him again. He used his blue eyes to plead, when his pride wouldn't let him say the words.

Sherlock had ignored that look in John's eyes on the night that they met, and he could have lost the little soldier as a result. In the future, Sherlock would find it difficult to refuse John anything when he looked like that. Strangely, the thought was less disturbing than exhilarating.

"Look," said John softly, "I promise I won't say it, if can I have another oral caress."

Sherlock's lips curled up ever so slightly, "Don't keep being an idiot John; it's called kissing."

"I don't care what you call it, Sherlock, but I'd like more," said John leaning his body into the taller man.

The tall man pulled his soldier away from the door. He folded himself down on the chair and pulled the doctor onto his lap. Sherlock did not trust his self-control if they sat on the bed, not with his arms full of John Watson.

John was in the detectives lap. It should have felt embarrassing. He was a soldier for God's sake!

But it felt safe. Somehow, it felt like home. It felt intensely erotic. It was not embarrassing to sit in Sherlock's lap and snog him breathless. It was very possibly the sexiest moment of John's life.

He pulled back when his body strained, wanting to grind down onto the lean, hard man underneath him. His entire body tensed as he fought to remain in control. Think of sighting your gun, he thought. Breathe in, breathe out. Those brown eyes bored into him, distracting him. What the hell? What was the real color of Sherlock's eyes anyway?

John could feel the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest. They were breathing in synchrony. Breathe in, breathe out. Feel your heart beat. Feel the control. John reached his head up and suckled on that great expanse of neck. Sherlock's neck sometimes looked almost fragile, like a swans neck, but it was corded with muscle and sinew.

Likewise, under the soldier's hands, Sherlock's arms were hard and strong. Christ, he'd never explored a man's body like this before, and John forgot to breathe.

The redhead moaned when John shifted in his lap, and when he gently bit and sucked first Sherlock's neck, then his jaw and finally returned to his mouth.

John began the kiss, but then Sherlock attacked his mouth. Some tiny part of John's brain said to fight back, take over, at least breathe. He could only part his lips, sucking on Sherlock's tongue, and he heard a deep, subterranean groan. The doctor's head swam and he pulled away. John gasped as his vision briefly failed. He rested his head on the detective's warm, broad chest. John's hands ran lightly up and down Sherlock's muscled arms.

Sherlock buried his face in John's hair. John. John must stay with him.

"John," murmured the baritone into the blond hair, "I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk, for days on end. Would that bother you?"

"UmmPh?" replied John who had unbuttoned just one more button so that he could kiss the top of that alabaster chest, that lurked beneath the fancy, form-fitting clothes. God, that chest was just as muscular as any soldier's. And that made John's pulse race, and he really couldn't quite understand what the baritone was saying. Violins? Not talking? Fine, it was all fine, with John.

"I've got my eye on a nice little place in Central London," continued the World's Only Consulting Detective, one hand gently gripped John's head. He really wanted to concentrate on John's lips, which were exploring his chest so very thoroughly, but _this was important._ "Together we ought to be able to afford it. We meet there tomorrow at five. John, it's big enough for both of us. You could, you could have your own room, if you wanted it."

"Um," John's brain was really not working very well. Did Sherlock just invite him to move in with him? He slowly reengaged his mouth. "but…but we've only just met? And we're going to go look at a flat?"

"Problem?"

John nodded slowly. This was indeed a problem. Oh he wanted it, He wanted it more than anything in the world. But it was a bad idea, a dangerous idea.

The former army captain mentally marshalled the list of reasons why this was a really bad idea. Mor-whatever readily came to mind. John and Sherlock really didn't know each other. John was really falling too hard and too fast, and that couldn't be a good thing. There was that pesky British Government brother that John sort of shot…

And then the devious detective began to nuzzle his hair. His hot breath teased John's ear. Oh God! He whispered John's name into his ear, and John's neurons all began to short-circuit again.

That tongue, that tongue was doing, doing _things_ to his ear. The hot wet muscle, circled the outer shell of his ear. It trailed behind his ear and teeth gently nibbled the soft tender skin there. He felt hid body tremble.

His brain shut down. Problem. What problem? A flatshare? What a brilliant idea. A flatshare with the sexiest, most brilliant man in London? Fucking brilliant!

Sherlock was way the hell out of John's league. And it was fine. It was brilliant. Breathe this time. Yes, I'm brilliant too, because I can remember to breathe. The sexy, brilliant detective turned the doctor, so that John leaned back in his arms. Sherlock assailed his jaw and face, and God John's face hurt from all the bruises and all the snogging and all the smiling, and that was brilliant too. And here he comes again. The man's lips encased his own. They sucked on his lip, surely they drew blood. And it was absolutely fucking brilliant.

John could never be described as compliant. In fact, he was stubborn. He never surrendered to anyone, not even a lover. And for some reason, now he did. John caved in completely. He opened himself up to each kiss and returned it. He tangled his hands in the wavy, red hair.

"John, meet me tomorrow at the flat."

"Ummm," said John. He cupped Sherlock's perfect face and pulled that face lower so that he could kiss those perfect cheekbones and run his soft, chapped lips across the scratchy stubble.

Oh this man is amazing, extraordinary. He nuzzled an ear, licked it and whispered "She'lock…" the effect was galvanizing. His detective pinned his arms down and snogged him until John fought for breath, his vision blurred yet again. Brilliant.

"John, meet me tomorrow at the new flat," the baritone voice was harsh and breathy.

Breathy? Right. Breathe in. Breathe out. "Ummm," he gasped, "Umm-hmmm," John licked his lips. Answer him; answer the nice man. "Yeah," he gasped."Yeah. Sure."

Sherlock's heart lurched. John said yes. His soldier. His John. His hands, John's hands, gently cradled his face as he put place a chaste kiss on his lips. Then John stood up.

His John. John belonged to him and only him. Which meant that that rival had to go. That monstrous madman had to go to prison forever or, better yet, die.

No one had ever kissed Sherlock like that. No one had ever cherished him, as if he really mattered to them. John was leaving? Slightly bemused, Sherlock watched his blond soldier bend down to tie his boots .Wait, John was leaving? Now?

"John. Will you stay a bit longer if …if I get you crisps?"

The former soldier collapsed in a fit of giggles. "Crisps?" he sputtered. "Cr…Crisps?" His high-pitched giggles filled the room. He straddled Sherlock's lap, his thighs pressing down on each side of Sherlock's legs, pinning him in place. Sherlock's body was alarmingly responsive to the weight pressing down on it.

But John was laughing at him. John's hands were on his face like before, but he was still laughing at him.

"I think you're supposed to offer me fancy jewelry," more giggling and a kiss, "or, or, maybe you're supposed to offer me wine and roses to buy my affections,' John was laughing at him and biting behind his ear. It didn't make sense.

John's breathy giggles sounded in his ears like the waves crashing against the shore. Buy his affection? Was John here as a prostitute? Sherlock felt the first stirrings of panic. Did John sell his services whether as a sniper or as a prostitute? Did John really care about him or not?

"Dear God in heaven, you are the only bloody man in the whole bloody universe who can deduce that I'd rather have a bag of bloody crisps with you than all the jewels in the tower"

Teeth scraped lightly across his skin, more licking and kissing. Surely John isn't selling himself for a bag of crisps?

I'm an idiot, John is laughing at his _joke._ It's meant to be a joke.

"You bloody, brilliant genius," John's hands were on either side of his face, his thumbs caressing the skin overlying his zygomatic arches. How had John seized control? His blue eyes, sparkled like the waves of the Côte d'Azur.

So, John was not laughing at him. John was happy. Sherlock hadn't recognized it, mostly because he'd never seen John happy before. The blond looked years younger when he laughed.

"I'll bloody stay as long as you like; as long as you think it's safe," said John. "But I'm holding you to your offer; you owe me a bag of crisps tomorrow." John descended into giggles again. Sherlock began to chuckle with him. His face slowly split in a wide grin.

He looked across at the cheeky little soldier, giggling like a boy in his lap. He narrowed his eyes, a predator ready to attack. John's eyes dilated in response, and the giggles faded. Sherlock struck, his mouth on John's lips. He swallowed John's giggles; he swallowed John's breath. He stole John's heart and made it his own.

**A/N** Thank you so much for all the wonderful people who are following this story and those who were kind enough to favorite it.

A special thank you in advance to everyone who reviews this chapter. I'd love to hear your thoughts, comments, criticisms and suggestions.

THANK YOU to those who have reviewed this fic so far. Thank you to InuChimera7410, ruvy91, Kyuubigurl74, Wicked Winter, anyrei1, AiLoveS, power0girl, and EJ12212012 for reviewing chapter 11.

**Disclaimer** I do not own the rights to anything SHERLOCK.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N** no warnings except this is a **Very Short Chapter**. Next one should be up in two days to make up for this **Very Short Chapter.**

**Chapter 13**

Mycoft was out of bed but still very sore. He wore silk pajamas and a matching silk dressing gown, both in a lovely shade of aubergine. The silk slid gently, soothingly over his bruises.

"Gregory, why did you stop?" asked the plaintive British Government, when his lover ceased nuzzling Mycroft's neck.

"Because he is a surprisingly compassionate man, who did not wish to condemn me to a life of blindness should I suffer the ultimate torture of seeing you and him…"

"Shut it, Sherlock!" snapped Detective Inspector Lestrade, practically blocking him from Mycroft. "Your brother just got out of bed for the first time today, and you could show a little bit of consideration for him. He's a hero, a wounded hero, who nearly sacrificed his life to catch that bastard Irishman."

"Calm yourself, Gregory. You should be used to my little brother's ways by now," said Mycroft imperiously. He sat in the comfy chair as if it were a throne. The tall, seated ginger grasped his partner's hand and pulled it close. "Besides, I won't allow you to get upset over his nonsense and drive up your blood pressure again."

He and Greg exchanged affectionate looks while Sherlock rolled his eyes, wondering if it would be inappropriate to text John Watson about the nauseating scene in front of him.

"Sherlock, instead of insulting me and my partner, why don't you share your information concerning the Irishman," said the true Leader of the Free World. "Clearly, you are here to dazzle us with your brilliance yet again."

"It's obvious," continued Mycroft, answering Lestrade's unvoiced question. "He's cheerful, well, cheerful for Sherlock, meaning he's made progress on a case, and since he came here, it concerns both of us, Greg. Therefore, it's about the Irishman, although I strictly forbade both of you to become involved in it. I assume that I was disobeyed before the sniper even locked me in his sights."

Lestrade crossed his arms looking defiant, but Mycroft smiled his forgiveness. Sherlock felt severe nausea watching the pair of them. And who is Mycroft to tell Sherlock what cases to work on. No one does that.

"If I choose to take a case, Mycroft, then I will, your wishes not withstanding," said Sherlock flopping into a chair, withdrawing a small, red gift bag from his coat pocket and swinging it loosely in his fingers.

The gift bag effectively mesmerized both Greg and Mycroft. "Problem?" asked the consulting detective smugly. "Don't get yourselves too worked up, of course, the gift is not from me. I don't do gifts," he said disdainfully. "It's from John Watson. A _get well_ present, apparently."

He tossed it to the detective inspector and leaned back, dying of boredom. Mycroft dug into the bag eagerly.

"Well, that's a very nice card, and the cakes look lovely," said Mycroft appreciatively. "The cream is supposed to soothe bruises, apparently."

"Yes, but, we'll have to have it all tested. I'm not sure we should trust…" began the graying Yarder.

"Lestrade, why do you insist on being an idiot? What _do_ you see in the detective inspector, Mycroft? No, don't tell me. I'm sure it's dull and possibly sickening," said Sherlock.

"If John wanted Mycroft dead, he would have shot him," continued Sherlock, "Nonetheless, I anticipated your petty suspicions and had a cake and the cream tested. The cakes may kill you by contributing to your obesity, Mycroft, and accidental ingestion of the cream will undoubtedly make you ill. Other than that, the gifts are perfectly safe. But do be careful not to let the card give you a paper cut. Now, can we get back to discussing Mor-whatever, as I have several leads that are so simple, even your minions might be able to handle them."

Sherlock tolerated his brother's presence for nearly thirty minutes in order to exchange data with Lestrade, arrange for timed test drives through London and obtain authorization to research government files.

In order to prevent permanent brain damage, the consulting detective had to turn his back when Lestrade insisted on applying Dr. Watson's topical ointment to his brother's rather lurid contusions.

"Damn, the calls never end," complained Lestrade, when he heard his phone's ring tone.

"Sherlock, be nice to Mycroft," Greg hissed as he stepped out into the hall.

The brothers studied each other in silence. Mycroft began to frown as his brother smirked. "The crease in your trousers is off. Your sleeves are not perfectly symmetric, and you nearly smiled twice. You are smirking now. You are positively gleeful and distracted. You have only the one case on, and it is progressing slowly. It does not account for your _exuberance_. Unless you have discovered a long-lost violin concerto, the only other explanation for your giddiness is that you have, to use the vernacular, _fallen for someone_. I must warn you again, that sentiments are a liability," said Mycroft.

"Oh, that's rich, coming from you, playing pat-a-cake with another grown man," sneered Sherlock.

"Sherlock, I worry, constantly. You always seem to invest too much of yourself in these liaisons. Remember Victor."

"I remember Victor perfectly, Mycroft," snapped the thin brunet. Since this morning, his hair and eye color had returned to normal. "Shall I remind you about Kevin? Or Esther? Or…"

"Enough, Sherlock. All relationships end, however, most people do not resort to suicidal levels of drug use when love burns itself out. I am only trying to avoid another…ah, relapse, shall we say?" suggested the British Government.

"I am an adult, Mycroft. I am in my thirties. I was younger then, and you never understood me anyway. Besides what will you do when your relationship ends, as you assure me it must. Hmm? Can we expect world-wide Armageddon when that happens? I must remember to stock up on rosin and my favorite cigarettes now." Sherlock sniffed with contempt.

"This is not about me and Gregory. I am only concerned for your welfare," said Mycroft stiffly.

'I do not require your intervention in my personal affairs," consulting detective snapped back.

"Who is it this time? Please tell me that he doesn't sell drugs or consort with criminals," sighed Mycroft. Really his baby brother caused him more distress than all the situations in North Africa.

"I can assure you that he has no dealings with drugs, not that it's any of your concern," said Sherlock.

"So he consorts with criminals. Oh God," drawled Mycroft with a frown, "Sherlock you have surpassed yourself. Surely, even you would not be so foolish as to associate with a disabled, emotionally unstable Special Forces veteran who has managed to attract the attentions of a murderous criminal kingpin. I fail to see the attraction. Other than his marksmanship he's so… ordinary." Mycroft looked as if he had bitten into a lemon.

"Leave it Mycroft. You wouldn't understand."

"If you won't use common sense to protect yourself, Sherlock, think about your new toy," said Mycroft patronizingly. "Given his mental instability, he will not react well when you abandon him for your next case or experiment."

"You will stay out of my private affairs, Mycroft," demanded Sherlock loudly, his neck corded and strained with anger.

"The affair, as you so aptly call it," said Mycroft, his lip curled contemptuously, "can not be private when it involves the man who I hired to do clandestine work…"

The brotherly discussion ended when Lestrade burst through the door.

"God help me. I can't leave you two alone for five minutes," said Lestrade, grabbing his jacket from the end of Mycroft's bed.

"Gregory, our Sherlock has decided to give dating another try," said Mycroft.

"Well, good for him. Look I have to go…"

"With John Watson, the sniper," continued Mycroft.

"Well it figures. He intelligent, for a non-super genius; he's dangerous and heck he's a soldier. On top of that he's a cute, little guy with big, blue eyes," said Lestrade, checking his wallet.

Death rays from the eyes of both Holmes brothers shot out at the hapless detective inspector. Somehow, he survived the onslaught.

"What? Was it something I said?" asked Greg Lestrade.

"I had no idea that Dr. Watson was so irresistible," said Mycroft with deceptive calm. "Why don't _you _have a crack at him, Gregory?"

"Whoa. Hold on, I only meant that I could see the attraction for Sherlock. I don't think Watson's attractive at all. He's short and showed a very bad temper the other night and, erm, and he's unemployed and he walks with a limp."

"Shut up, Lestrade," said Sherlock angrily. "And, since you find him so repulsive, I can only hope that you will not accost John Watson with your unwelcome attentions." Sherlock got up to pace, "I presume that there's been a murder that requires your immediate attention. Or... could it possibly be a suicide? There's been a fourth. Where?"

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't be rushing away from my brother and his teacakes unless something's different."

"You know how they never leave a note?"

'Yes," replied Sherlock.

"This one did. Why don't you come?" asked the detective inspector

"Not in a police care," said Sherlock calmly, "I'll be right behind."

"Thank you," said Lestrade. He bent over to kiss the British Government on his temple, since the British Government was giving the detective inspector the proverbial cold shoulder. Lestrade ruffled his lover's hair and then rushed out the door, ignoring his partner's persistent glare.

"Brilliant! Yes!" exclaimed Sherlock, as soon as Lestrade was out earshot. The tall brunet leapt up into the air. "Four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas. Mycroft, enjoy your cakes! Don't get too fat!" said Sherlock, as he flew out the door, his coat billowing behind him.

Mycroft looked up as his beautiful and very competent PA entered the room, communing with her Blackberry.

"Sir?" she inquired, looking back up at her boss for two seconds, before locking her gaze back onto her mobile.

"We'd better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade 3. Active," decided Mycroft.

"Sorry, sir. Whose status?"

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson," replied the British Government.

**A/N** Chapter 14 in two days. Thank you for reading. I would love to hear your comments, critiques or suggestions.

**Thank you** to everyone who reviewed chapter 12 including, Wicked WInter, Blooming Nightshade, Sweetlover1230, Darkkira1, Lady Allen, lasrber (actually chapter 1), EJ12212012, Quiet Time, ruvy91, anyrei1, Kyuubigurl74, AiLoveS, power0girl, foxeeflame, ticklethedragon1, InuChimera7410, Blue-hairedDevil,SamuelE8688.

**Disclaimer **It's sad but true; I still do not own any rights to Sherlock.


	14. Chapter 14

**Warning**-noncon touching and kissing. M/M sex (not nice sex either) (but not too horrible and it is consensual, so, yeah. I'm blithering over the internet. Just not good at warnings, I guess.)

So this is for **mature audiences**, really!

ANYWAY...

**Chapter 14**

John was invigorated by the blissfully cool, London air. It was bracing, he thought, as he marched to his favorite coffee shop. The light rain had cleaned the streets and left them glistening. Other people huddled under their umbrellas and rushed about, trying to avoid a little wet. Silly gits. This was London, the best city in the world, and after all, wasn't London known for its fog? This was really just a little mist, nothing to get all worked up about. John brushed back his hair, to keep it from dripping into his eyes, but that was fine. It was all fine.

"Morning, Dorcas," he said smiling broadly at the barista. She was really rather pretty, not his type of course-too pink and too blond-but, still, she was easy on the eyes. "Lovely day isn't it? And isn't that a lovely scarf, it suits you. One coffee please, milk, no sugar."

As soon as John paid with his last bit of change, he made to go back outside.

"Oh, you don' wanna go sit outside in the rain, Luv," said the rosy-cheeked barista, smiling back.

"It's just a bit of mist; it's no big deal," said John, with a cheeky grin.

John tapped the chair to knock off some of the rain water and sat down. His coffee steamed in the cool air, mingling with the clouds he blew out with his contented sigh.

John's lovely morning only improved when the lovely Dorcas stepped outside to offer John table service. She presented him with a free sample of seed cake and even leaned over, so that he could visually sample her ample cleavage. John could appreciate her generous bosom, even if he prefered a certain other person's broad, masculine chest. John smiled smugly, as he ate his rather large sample and read his rather soggy newspaper.

John felt a trifle disappointed when Sven/Sherlock did not appear, well it had been a late night, what with all that snogging. The younger man was probably having a bit of a lie in. No matter, John and Sherlock were going to look at a flat share this evening. Lovely. Brilliant.

Since the weather was so fine, the former soldier decided to take a stroll around the park. He admired the different colors of umbrellas and the many styles of raincoats, which he saw. John wondered if he should shop around for a trench coat. But, he remembered with a brief scowl, they always made his legs look too short. Well, that's not a problem; John would be sure to purchase a plain, dependable black umbrella over the weekend. Maybe he'd look around for a jumble sale. He smiled vaguely in the rain.

He ran his hand through his hair, finding it a bit wetter, soaking actually, but surely that was to be expected. This was London after all, not Afghanistan. They didn't have flat shares with brilliant, consulting detectives in Afghanistan.

Heading back to his bedsit in the shiny, silvery mist, John considered purchasing that umbrella sooner rather than later. Perhaps it had stopped misting and was actually raining. It was really rather difficult to see five feet in front of him in the downpour. Still, he judged, it was a good, solid English rain and John Watson was a patriot. _He_ would not complain about the weather. _He_ would embrace it.

_He_ was comprehensively soaked from head to toe, when a black van sped to a stop next to him, splashing the muddy water up in an impressive wave. Before John could react, Colonel Moran and a hulking goon jumped out. Bloody hell.

The Colonel dragged John to the van, John swung his fist, but only connected with Moran's very solid shoulder. Between the Colonel and the hulk, John was not given any other chance to resist. They held his arms and lifted him into the van.

The doctor balked in the doorway. He panicked when he saw the clean floor mats and fine leather upholstery.

"Wait. Stop! I'm all over wet. For God's sake, you don't want me dripping on the floor! What if it ruins the carpet?" said John, urgently. He twisted impotently in their grasps.

"Johnny, you are so sweet. None of my other boyfriends ever worried about my carpets," chirped Mor-whatever. "But I can't have my pet wandering about in this deluge. I just can't. You're soaking wet. What if you get pneumonia?"

"Ermm," said John as the handsome lunatic pulled off John's jacket, followed by one of his favorite jumpers, the one with orange and green stripes. The van pulled forward with no warning, dumping John into the Irishman's lap.

"Jawnny! " exclaimed the madman, in a high-pitched voice. "Johnny, you naughty boy! This doesn't count as our second date, silly. Now you sit next to me not _on_ me," continued the lunatic in a lower pitched voice.

"I'll ruin the seat, I'll ruin your suit," babbled John. Who the hell would Moran shoot this time, wondered John? He scrambled off of the crazy man's lap. If the mud and water dripping off John stained the upholstery or, God forbid the lunatic's bespoke suit, Moran might have to shoot the poor hulking bugger in the seat across from John. Or would the Colonel just shoot John, this time? He looked like he wanted to shoot John.

"Settle down, Jawwn. Daddy wants to give his little pet a great, big hug!," said the madman, in falsetto now.

John sat stiffly with Mor-whatever's arm around him. At least John's checked button down shirt wasn't too damp. The rain pounded the roof of the van as it sped through London's streets.

The goons, which in John's mind included Moran, sat and seemed to stare into space. The crime boss babbled on about taking to John about shopping and fine wines and taking a cruise on a yacht and selling real estate. He might have mentioned, in passing, the elimination of a rival in Lahore, Pakistan. John was careful to nod and say yes or no, at appropriate intervals.

Upon reflection, taking a swing at Moran had been sort of stupid. No, it had been very stupid. It was one thing to risk his own life, thought John, but his stupidity might have put Harry in danger. He would have to control his temper.

John had to think about Harry before himself. And then there was Sherlock. At least, the mad crime boss doesn't know about Sherlock. Yet.

All of John's his reservations about moving in with the younger man returned, crashing into him like a tsunami. The flat share was a terrible idea. It would put Sherlock in danger. It was a non-starter.

Christ, what do I do? I bet I could kill Mor-whatever right now. John quickly thought of three ways to kill the lunatic, but then Moran would kill John and more importantly Harry.

At least they don't know about Sherlock, he thought again. And I'll just have to keep it that way. I can just end it with Sherlock before it really begins. It's no big deal. John was drowning in the disappointment and even despair, left by the tsunami. But he forced a smile at the criminally insane man who clutched his hand. John wished he was dead.

On Saville Row, the cheerful but dangerous Irishman announced, "First stop, Johnny! Lets get you some nice clothes."

The goons hustled John through the back door of a men's clothing store. Mor-whatever sauntered in behind them, under a large umbrella held by his driver.

Although there were several clerks on duty, the shades were down, and the front door was locked. Apparently, this was a private shopping event. John narrowly eyed the daïs surrounded by mirrors on two sides. John pursed his lips; this could prove to be embarrassing.

John stoically endured the fitting as the tailor measured him, whilst the ex-soldier stood in nothing but his pants. Obviously, he had been fitted for his dress uniforms in the past, but this was a whole new level of tailoring.

Unluckily, John had foolishly worn his red pants in a pathetic burst of romantic optimism. Mor-whatever ostentatiously licked his lips when John stepped onto the platform for The Taking of the Measurements. At least two of the clerks had the temerity to ogle him as well, much to the sneering amusement of the Colonel. John wished he was dead.

The tailor measured everything on John. Hell, thought John bitterly, the bloody tailor probably even measured my cock. This humiliation was followed by The Trying on of Outfits. John publicly modeled suit jackets, trousers, sports coats, jumpers and various shirts and shoes, while the barmy Irishman clapped and chattered and oh'd and ah'd. Cloth was sampled and selected. Mor-whatever made all the decisions, while John stood around, usually in nothing but his sodding red pants. The clerks, tailor and even the hulking goon ogled him constantly.

'Daddy" finally selected the new wardrobe for his pet. As a personal favor to Mr. Prince, the first fitting would be in only two days gushed the tailor, who had twice brushed John's arse, accidentally on purpose. Of course, Mor-whatever publicly grabbed John's arse several times, saying that John looked lovely in red. John seethed and promised himself revenge, cold and deadly, just like the Klingon proverb. The revenge would be scheduled, just as soon as Harry was hiden somewhere safe.

Then John realized it. The idiot tailor had spoken the lunatic's name. His name was Prince! For a few glorious seconds, John felt elated. Then Mor-whatever smirked at the shorter, blond. Well, shite, Prince was just an alias. Of course, it's an alias. All geniuses used alias all the time, obviously. God, I am so stupid, and of course, the sodding Irishman bloody knows it.

The sodding Irishman also purchased a new outfit for his pet to wear immediately. John's old clothes, including his lovely striped jumper were deemed trash. John put up a half-hearted protest when they were placed in the bin, but then Mor-whatever assumed a thinking pose and wondered out loud what Harry would want. John silently said farewell to his comfy old outfit.

At the last-minute, Mor-whatever ordered several more red pants for his precious pet, as a little treat for them both. John nearly gagged.

When they left the shop, John was wearing tight-fitting jeans and a form-fitting white shirt with a lavender cashmere jumper and a new leather jacket. John had also been encouraged to to allow, one of the clerks, Toby, to work some gel into his hair. Toby surreptitiously slipped his mobile number in John's pocket. Bloody hell.

"How do your new shoes feel, Luv?" asked the fashion-obsessed madman, while Moran and the hulk escorted John to the van..

"Um good, they feel good," and they did feel good. Everything felt good. Except the lavender jumper, it was soft and warm, but it was too clingy and it was _lavender_, like an Easter egg. He'd asked for the blue jumper but _Daddy_ refused. John repeated his request, politely, but Daddy frowned. Then Daddy's eyes bugged out. John had suddenly seen all of the clerks as potential targets for Moran and quickly accepted the Easter egg jumper.

The next stop was for lunch at an exclusive bistro. Again they entered through the back. The kitchen staff seemed genuinely eager to see Mr. Prince (not his real name.) This must be a regular event, and no doubt Mr. Prince paid well for these private, little functions. John felt special. Not.

John and Mr. Prince/ Mor-whatever sat in the empty restaurant, which had been exclusively reserved for them. The white linen table-cloth sparkled with ridiculous amounts of cutlery and crystal glasses, and, big surprise, three blood-red roses graced the center of the table.

John felt that his purple jumper glowed. He felt like the staff stared at him. Maybe he looked as ridiculous as he felt. Or maybe the staff knew about the eventual fate of Mor/Prince's boyfriends. Probably they stared at John the way people might watch a train-wreck in progress. It's horrifying, and yet you can't help but look. Great, I'm a lavender train wreck. John virtually chugged his first glass of wine.

After John tossed back a second glass of wine, he began to enjoy lunch. The apple, leek and potato soup was a pretty darn good choice for a last supper. John went along with this ersatz dating thing for Harry's sake, but only up to a point. John had finally decided that he was going to have to die to defend his...well not virginity, he wasn't a virgin per se, no... but it was the same idea. It was just, he'd never had a...had a cock up his duff before.

And that wasn't even the point. A person should get to choose their partners without threats. Period. He just hoped that once he was dead, Harry would be spared.

At least,before his undoubtedly gruesome and probably painful death, John had had an amazing night of romance with the most brilliant man in London. He wondered vaguely if Sherlock would miss him. Probably not, a man like that could have anyone he wanted, after all.

If John was destined to die, he might as well enjoy the charming Zinfandel and the penne with artichokes and truffles. He figured he might as well have desert too. No need to worry about his waistline now.

When the waiter said that the crème Brulèe was to die for, John realized that he probably should have skipped the charming Zinfandel, because John lost it. He began to giggle uncontrollably.

Mor-whatever looked confused. He probably didn't know whether to be insulted or not, figured John. Which probably meant that the lunatic didn't know whether he should shoot a waiter or the ex-soldier. It was probably a tough decision, and John took pity on the poor, handsome psychopath's indecision.

"Look," he said. "the crème brulèe is 'to die for'. If I don't do what you want, you're going to kill me. _Right_? Right. So, I'm facing death... _and_ the crème brulèe is _to die for_. Get it? To die for?"

John dissolved into frankly hysterical giggles. Yep, that last glass of Zinfandel really wasn't a good idea. Finally Mr. Prince/Mor-whatever began to giggle too; either he got the joke eventually, or perhaps John's giggling was infectious. The Irishman laughed like a girl, which made John laugh even harder. John found the madman's eager desire to please a little endearing. In a sick, pitiful, dysfunctional sort of way.

After the crème brulèe and Irish coffee (of course, _Irish coffee_, tittered John to himself). The happy, slightly inebriated couple made their way hand in hand back to the van of death, as John christened it. It was almost romantic, in dark, horror movie sort of way.

The next stop was an art gallery and a private tour. The lunatic wanted another weird painting. This one was of a black swastika on a dark grey canvas. John found a painting nearby that was only a little weird. It was a landscape of a lavender house on the edge of a cliff with weird lavender birds flying in the setting sun, which was an odd green color. It had very little black and no swastikas.

John pointed out the lavender highlights which matched his hideous jumper and Mor-whatever squealed with delight, like a girl, thought John. He giggled some more. The crazy man bought the colorful green sunset painting with an Easter egg house and left, his arm was draped around his little pet.

The alcohol was wearing off, and John began to wonder what time it was and whether it was time to die.

Since he was going to die, he had very little to lose. "Look, I think I deserve to know your name before, well, whatever. Colonel Moran gets to know your name. Even the hulk, there, gets to know your name, I bet," said John waiting for the punch, slap, or bullet between his eyes.

Mor-whatever's head swung from side to side, like a komodo dragon, thought John, mesmerized in spite of himself.

"Jim, you can call me Jim. Hi!" said the psychopath in falsetto again. "So, did you have a good time, Johnny?" he asked. Now his voice was low and dangerous, or was it seductive? "Because I had a good time, I really did."

John was pulled into an embrace. Jim, if that was really his name, kissed the blonds' temple and then left a trail of wet, mushy kisses down his face and into his neck.

Nope, not seductive, decided John, sobering up rapidly. This was just wrong.

John pushed himself away but Jim/Mor-whatever/Prince only laughed and clapped his hands. "Good! You've rather shown your hand, Jawn," said the psycho-boyfriend from hell, who stared at the traitorous bulge in John's pants.

The madman leaned forward, as John backed into the corner of the seat. The Irishman tittered and grabbed John's arms with his delicate but surprisingly strong hands.

"Now, now, remember your darling, drunken whore of a sister, pet," said Jim/Prince/Mor-whatever (and how the hell many names can one person have, thought John). The Irishman slid himself over the seat like an well-dressed slug. A slug dressed to kill, thought John, as another giggle escaped him.

The leering Irishman crawled into the former soldier's lap, grinning like a madman. Which is exactly what he is, John reminded himself.

"Jim, stop. Let go of me now..."said John, the giggles having been killed by the leering lunatic.

The madman pinned the blond's arms down and began to ravage his mouth. John's mind was fragmenting; part of him wanted to escape and he fought to free his arms. Part of him was alarmingly turned on by Jim's domination over him, only a small part but there it was. Part of him was terrified for Harry and wondered just how much danger would be in if he didn't give in.

John couldn't get his arms free. He couldn't push the bastard off of him.

Jim explored the lovely, hot cavern of John's mouth. Exquisite. Jim couldn't wait to explore all of John. Jim could hardly wait for the third date to invade this man's dark, scorching fissure-oh it was going to be so lovely!

And it was so cute, the way John tried to pull his head backwards and kept trying to free his arms. Those struggles were such a turn on. As a reward for his cuteness, Jim ensured that his boyfriend was properly kissed, the way a man like John should be kissed, with tongue and lips and teeth followed by the sharp, intoxicating, metallic, taste of blood. This is what a soldier like John deserved. Only Jim could truly satisfy his little pet.

Oh, and Seb was ready to explode. Behind his flinty exterior, Seb's eyes burned. Those eyes raged insanely. Jim grinned tauntingly at his longtime lover; he saw the large soldier's arousal swelling in his lap. Jim laughed again before he accosted John's tasty neck. The smaller man shuddered. John's fear, so well controlled but still so palpable, was mixed with desire, and wasn't it precious how he tried to hide his arousal from Daddy? Jim ground down on the obvious and pleasingly large erection underneath him.

John gasped, his firm little body tense and trembling under the onslaught. Would his precious little Johnny suddenly surrender or maybe he would snap, go berserk-oh, now that would be soooo delicious-and then John would fight back with all his strength, dooming the stupid slut who dared to call herself his sister. Jim hoped for the latter; he'd like to kill a woman who looked so much like John. It would be almost like killing his little soldier, but in the end, Daddy would _still_ have his pet for more fun and games. The best of both worlds. This was just like a game. _ OHHHH_,_ it is a game, silly_! Jim loved games.

The madman bit his lip and sucked out the blood. VAMPIRE! VAMPIRE, thought JOhn, panicked. God that one hurt, and it made John throb with desire, and it made him physically ill. If it wasn't for Harry…

Fuck this. Harry would have to defend herself. And to hell with his double-crossing body. In the end, it didn't matter if his stupid body responded, this whole thing was wrong. John wanted out. He began to struggle harder, but to no avail. The psychopath had a madman's manic strength, and John's arms were no where near as strong as they used to be, no matter that he went to PT or a gym five days a week. And every time he said no, Jim just slammed his lips on top of John's mouth.

John glanced over the top of the psycho-vampire's shoulder and met Moran's eyes. For just an instant, Colonel Moran's shields were down and John saw the naked pain and longing in his eyes.

Then the Colonel looked straight ahead. Once again he was impervious to the struggle in front of him.

The former army-doctor realized that Jim had watched the exchange and had seen the man's pain too, and it made Jim smile, a dark, cruel and soulless smile. Shite, he's worse than a vampire; he's a demon. I'm doomed. John fought off the panic that bloomed in his chest.

Remember your training Captain Watson! Fuck retirement, you are still a soldier in service to Her Majesty. You will always be a soldier. Imagine Jim in your sights. I can see the madman though the crosshairs; he's grinning as he tortures me, as he tortures the Colonel. Lock on target. Breathe in. Breathe out….Breathe in….Breathe…out…Feel your heart beat…Breathe…in…..slow your hear beat…breathe…out.

As if a he had flipped a switch, the tension drained from John's body. The trembling stopped. The gasps, protests and the stifled moans were gone! What the fuck? Jim looked down, his pet's eyes were focused on the ceiling. He turned his head; his lieutenant was leaning forward, also alert to the sudden change.

Moriarty had to think, was this was a good thing or a bad thing.

Well, this was perfect! Johnny was never dull. None of Jim's other boyfriends had disappear in their minds-as much as they might have wanted to, especially at the end. Jim shook his pet, he grabbed John's jaw and slapped the silly, precious, disobedient thing. John's breathing was slow and measured and he had escaped, and even _Sebby_ couldn't quite do this. Just make his mind disappear like that. I wonder if it's forever? Maybe he lost his mind? Or maybe he's gone to ground, my little foxie might be playing a little game with me. Playing hide and seek-how adorable!

Jim practically purred with pleasure, as he slapped his naughty little pet again. He couldn't stop himself, not really; and he bit behind his pet's ear hard but not to draw blood. Oh what the hell, why not? Naughty little pet. Jim trapped a tiny piece of skin between his teeth and bit and tore. He was rewarded by a grunt of pain and a hitch in Johnny's breathing. He was rewarded by the teeniest squirt of hot, salty, coppery-tasting blood. It danced on his tongue. And, oh, how Jim loved dancing.

After several minutes of suckling behind John's ear with no response. Mr Prince/Mor-whatever, pulled away and grabbed John's face with his hands squeezing John's jaw, hard.

The lunatic had slapped John more than once. John only lost control for a second when pain exploded behind his right ear. He bit me again! VAMPIRE! I fucking knew he was a vampire.

Finally, Jim's soft hands traveled down, gently caressing John's neck; John did not look at him. It ended with Jim's fingers encircling his neck; Jim's thumb's lightly rubbing over the doctor's trachea and gradually pressing down harder and harder. John looked up at the psycho-vampire above him. And the lunatic's eyes were cold and empty. They promised death. John forgot everything else. Fuck it, if I'm going to die anyway, thought John, I'm taking him down with me.

His arms were free; they had been for some time, the doctor realized. John readied himself to grab the lunatic's throat. He would brace his other hand behind the madman's neck; I should be able to snap his fucking neck before the Colonel can kill me. Almost imperceptibly, John's hands tensed .

Finally, thought Jim, caressing John's beautiful neck. He squeezed just enough to make John's gorgeous eyes widen. Finally, I have his attention again. It is a game; it is; it is!

"Jawn-ee," cooed Jim/Mr. Prince. "Jawnnee, you are planning murder. I see it in your eyes. And it's beautiful. Who're you goin' to murder, Jawnee? You want to murder me?"

John glanced up at the handsome leering face above him. Acquire target. Breathe in. He focused on the man's neck. Breathe out. Target acquired. Permission to kill? What about Harry? John hesitated but continued his breathing. He remained in control. Breathe in…

"I see the murderer lurking inside you, Johnny, and it wants out. And I _will_ bring it out, Johnny," John looked up, his lips parted in a fierce grimace. He looked at the dark brown eye's boring into his soul, seeing everything. Breathe Watson. "And we will all play together, won't that be fun?" said Jim in an eager, childish voice, at odds with his dark corpse-like eyes.

Reacquire target, that's an order Captain Watson. Breath out. Lock on target… "That red-headed twat, you hung out with yesterday morning, couldn't possibly appreciate you John, not like I do." The insane Irishman's voice rolled from a sing-song falsetto to deep low growl. "He couldn't appreciate your slayer's soul; he just couldn't. I don't think he's right for you, Johnny. I think that if he comes sniffing around again, we'll have to get rid of him."

John tried not to stiffen at the threat against Sven/Sherlock. He was tired and frightened of all the threats and implied threats against his sister and now his friend. He was tired of playing sick games with this psychopath. Breathe in… Breathe…out. You have permission to kill, Captain. Breath in…Make ready. John's trigger finger relaxed.

The ex-colonel watched closely, he knew that the finger twitch was a tell. Moran crouched, tense and ready. Jim knew it too and timed it perfectly.

Without warning, Jim slid off John's lap. Moran lunged forward before John could do more than begin to stand. He knocked the shorter blond back into his seat, pinning John's arms to his side.

"Well, Johnny, it's been fun, but Daddy's had enough now. Here's money for cab fare,' said the pycho-demon-boyfriend from hell, slipping a wad of money into John's pocket. "By-e."

Wait. What?

As if on cue, Moran stood, pulling Watson with him; he opened the van door and threw John out onto the sidewalk. What the fuck? John lay stunned in the pouring rain as the van raced off. His face vacant of any emotion, the Colonel leaned out the door, watching the former army captain sprawled on the sidewalk.

* * *

"Oh that was so much fun!" chortled Moriarty. "You!" he demanded sharply to the toad that Sebby had brought for backup. "Out, now." At least this ignorant henchman was properly trained. He jumped up, scrambled for the door and as soon as the van slowed, he jumped out. Seb eyed his boss warily, as he shut the van door for the second time in five minutes.

"You like watching, don't you Seb? I can see your pathetic arousal from here. Do you wank off, when I fuck my little pets, Sebby? Do you imagine that you're the one fucking them, or do you imaging that you're fucking me?" said Moriarty, stroking himself through his fine tailored trousers. "Do you wonder what it would be like to tie my pretty little soldier down? I'm thinking about it. I am imaging him tied down and struggling. I am fucking his beautiful little mouth. PULL DOWN YOUR FUCKIN' TROUSERS! YOU MORON! How can I fuck you with your fucking pants on!" yelled the James Moriarty, unzipping his own trousers and pulling them off. He folded them carefully-they were Westwood, after all. Then he crooned to Sebastian again, "I'm thinking about fucking my little pet, just nailing his sweet little ass and maybe, just maybe, letting you fuck me at the same time. Would you like that Sebby? I think you would."

Sebby stood, his head ducked to under ther ceiling of the van. He was half-naked, his stiff cock red and throbbing.

Oh goodie, it was already leaking. "Come here, Sebby. Come give Daddy a kiss," crooned Moriarty.

Sebastian knelt down between Jim's bare legs. Jim was in an exceptionally good mood today and allowed Sebastian to kiss him for several minutes. Then he had the former colonel bend over the rear seat. Feeling generous, Moriarty allowed his lover to prepare himself and even apply some lube. Then he skewered Sebastian and banged away happily.

The entire time he that he fucked his lieutenant, the crime boss chattered away like a deranged magpie.

"Sebby, I need to see the forecasts on our real estate in Greece. We really bought a bit too much after we arranged for their banking crisis. No matter, we'll still quadrupal our profits. You know you're such a good fuck, Sebby. Oh and don't forget, I have to contact General Chan. Such a stupid name. She should not be a general, maybe a captain, but I'm not sure she's even good enough for that. I am beginning to have doubts about her, Sebby," sang Moriarty as he pounded as hard as he could into the ex-colonel. "She may have outlived her usefulness. Sebby, Sebby, I think I may be coming soon. You are such good boy today. I want to see you come too this time. I want you to touch youself, but only this once, just as a treat. Oh God, this is really one of our best fucks, Sebby. I wonder if Johnny will be as good as you. Probably better, you know why? I'll tell you why, because he still thinks he's one of the good guys and it will be so much fun to make him into one of the bad guys. Oh God, hurry up and come Sebby, Daddy can't wait much longer," snarled Jim irritably.

Sebastian was so inconsiderate, thought Jim, as he thrust with all his might, driving the larger man into the seat. Sebastian needed to be punished.

Jim picked his belt up from his neat pile of clothes and began whipping his lover with the folded strap. Sebastian gasped as the welts formed on his buttocks; as always, the pain brought him quickly to a shuddering climax. Jim cried out gleefully as he, too, came inside his lover.

Sated, Jim pulled out and slid to the floor. He rested against his spent lieutenant's firm, sweaty thigh and began texting instructions to his many operatives, at home and abroad.

Sebastion still knelt, bent over the seat. He was appreciative that his boss was so tender and loving today. There probably wouldn't even be any bleeding this time. And Jim was actually touching him after his release. It was wonderful. A couple of happy tears escaped his eye. The former colonel was grateful to John Watson for making his boss so happy and, thus, so loving and tender.

Sooner or later, Sebastian would have to kill the ex-army doctor, but, in gratitude for this afternoon, he would make Watson's death quick and almost, but not quite, pain-free.

He listened as Moriarty rattled off instructions to someone on the phone. As always, he didn't pay attention to Jim's conversations. They were often too complicated, and anyway, Jim was the boss. Jim made all the decisions, and like a good soldier, Sebastian just followed his orders.

* * *

OK, what just happened? One minute that madman's seducing me, then he looks like he wants to kill me; then he throws me out of the van of death while it's still moving. What the fuck? John rubbed his shoulder, as he sat up slowly in the middle of a puddle. His back protested just as much as his shoulder.

An older man slowed his mad dash through the rain, to try to help the veteran sniper to stand up. John thanked him and quickly began marching away. Ignore the shoulder, and your back. And the leg? Nope, it's nothing, it's fine. Everything's fine. No big deal.

John was quite lost, but he didn't want to use the money that Jim Mor-whatever gave him for a taxi, because he thought that there just might be some finger prints on it. He stuffed his trembling left hand into his new leather coat pocket and felt cold, hard steel. Christ, Jim (if that's even his name), or possibly Moran, had shoved a handgun in his pocket. Bloody hell. How long had it been in there? Was it loaded? Maybe he should use it on himself. That was one way to protect Harry, and Sherlock too. They'd be a damn sight better off, if John was dead.

The bloody damn sky looked dead. The clouds were a leaden grey. No, thought John with his lips pursed, they were corpse grey, just like the grey and black paintings in Jim Mor-whatever's underground quarters.

The stupid rain came down in buckets, drenching the former soldier. The frigid water dripped down his neck, giving him chills. People pushed and shoved past him in their straightjacket-like London Fog uniforms and their hideously colored rain ponchos. They're all a bunch of Nazis and clowns running about in the bloody rain. And everyone carried ugly black umbrellas, except the poor sod who sacrificed everything for them in the war, as if anyone bloody well cared. Only in London would everyone look so ugly in the rain, like drowned rats in raingear.

John hated London. He hated Britain. He hated the bloody, awful rain and the fucking, cold wind. His hands were clenched tightly.

He wanted to hit someone so badly. He wanted to punch Jim and Sebby_. _He wanted to punch that happy giggling couple in the doorway and that fat, red-cheeked old man laughing into his mobile under his enormous umbrella. John was fully prepared to punch anyone really.

He had been ten seconds from killing the bloody psycho-demon. If only he hadn't hesitated. A soldier must never lose his concentration. He knew better. Dammit! Dammit!

The air was so cold and freezing. What God-awful weather! John longed for the brilliant blue skies and the scorching sunshine of Afghanistan.

He asked directions twice, before finding the tube and heading towards 221 B Baker Street. He would only be a few minutes late for his rendezvous with Sherlock.

He would have to tell the tall, handsome ginger (if he was a ginger?) that the flat share would not work. The man would probably be relieved, wouldn't he? Sherlock had probably had time in the hard, cold light of day to reexamine the whole proposal and had surely realized his mistake. Who would want to share a flat with an old, disabled vet and one with little or no money? And who in their right mind would agree to share a flat with a man who had a psycho-demon-vampire-boyfriend from hell?

John hated the rain and the people on the tube and the traffic and everything to do with London.

He would have to say good-bye to the handsome, posh detective. At least we had The Savoy... It's like Casablanca, when Rick said, "At least we had Paris". Rick and Ilsa had to break up because Ilsa was married to Victor. Wait, that would mean Jim was Victor Lazlo, and then I would have to be Ilsa, and Sherlock gets to be Rick. That would make Lestrade the Vichy Captain and Mycroft could be the fat, underworld smuggler, played by Sydney Greenstreet. But I want to be the guy. I want to be Rick, and I don't want to be Ilsa.

Bloody hell, I worry about the stupidest things.

I'll have to die or leave London immediately. It's the only way to protect Sherlock and Harry and not have to get in bed with a demon. If I don't leave, I'll regret it, "Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow" but probably by the weekend and certainly by next week. Oh well, that's Rick/Sherlock's line anyway. If I'm Ilsa, I'll just have to stand around looking sultry and poignant before I leave with a freakin' broken heart.

John Watson looked neither sultry nor poignant. He looked like a very angry, mostly drowned hedgehog in an expensive leather jacket, as he stood in front of 221B Baker Street. John was had run most of the way there, and he was panting, his breath forming clouds in the frigid air. His chest hurt. Probably from running in the freezing cold rain. It certainly wasn't because he had made the decision to say goodbye to Sherlock forever. He was not Ilsa, and he did not have a broken heart. Nonetheless his chest hurt. Ignore it; it's no big deal.

He checked the cheap watch, which he bought at a church jumble last month. He was only seven minutes late. Bloody hell, I met Sherlock Holmes exactly one day too late, and I'll regret that for the rest of my life.

Standing in the rain and squaring his shoulders, John Watson raised his chin defiantly and then raised his hand. Finally, John raised the knocker on the door of 221 Baker Street, just in time to say goodbye.

* * *

**A/N **So a longer chapter to make up for the shorter, previous one. There will be a short hiatus (one week?) before the next update due to the interruptions of real life (hereafter known as RL). Also I need to work on my other fic which has been languishing in limbo.

So, finally a bit of MorMor, or was it too much? Anyway, reviews let me know what you like and what you don't like. So, please, let me know what you think :D

**Thank you** to everyone who follows this fic and any one who has made it one of their favorites. **Special deluxe thank you's** to everyone who reviewed chapter 13 including EJ 12212012, ruvy91, Kyuubigurl74, InuChimera7410, Quiet Time, SamuelE8688, power0girl, anyrei1, stringed deducer.

**Disclaimer** This is fan-fiction and so naturally I do not own any rights to SHERLOCK, yeah?


	15. Chapter 15

**No Warnings-**except colorful language and bawdy, low-class humor. Oh, and the horrid lavender jumper makes a cameo appearance.

_Previously-Standing in the rain and squaring his shoulders, John Watson raised his chin defiantly and then raised his hand. Finally, John knocked on the door of 221 Baker Street._

**Chapter 15**

John waited at the door and gathered his courage, meanwhile the rain beat down on his head. He noticed the large number of parked cars, some of them double-parked in front of the apartment building.

He looked harder, although it was difficult to see anything in the pouring rain. Stupid, bloody rain. Yep, that one was an unmarked police car. So was the black one. In fact several of them were. John had a funny feeling about all this.

The lock turned. Although John fully intended to bid Sherlock good-bye forever, he automatically smiled, expecting to see the consulting detective when the door to 221B opened wide. His smile fell, upon seeing an older woman, somewhat shorter than him. She wore a purple dress and a frown, which deepened as she beheld the soaking wet gentleman on the stoop.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry; I must have the wrong address," said John beginning to back away.

"Oh, of course, you must be Doctor Watson. I'm Mrs. Hudson; you've come about the flat then," she said with a kind smile, which disappeared as two men trotted down the steps and out the front door. Oddly, thought John, both men wore blue latex gloves and cheap off the rack suits. What was almost as odd, John actually noticed the cut of their suits and the quality of the material. He certainly hadn't noticed that kind of thing before he started hanging out with these well-dressed but crazy geniuses.

"Oh dear, I am sorry, Doctor,"said Mrs. Hudson, after another man and two women and brushed past, "you just missed him, Sherlock I mean. He dashed out just a few minutes ago. That's Sherlock, always dashing about…My husband was just the same. But you're more the sitting-down type; I can tell."

"No, not really," said John, shaking his head and pursing his lips.

"And he was so looking forward to showing you the flat; he's already moved in," continued the kind lady in purple. "Shall we go up? Only the police haven't quite finished…"

"Police? Um, I think it's best, if I just leave Mrs. Hudson,' said John, back toward the door. "I'm sorry to have been a bother…"

"Oh no, Watson, you don't want to leave now," said Detective Inspector Lestrade, in a falsely cheery voice. "Come on up. I insist!"

"Since Mr. Holmes is not here, I really don't think it's appropriate," said John stiffly. He briefly toyed with the idea of running.

"Oh, you might as well," said Mrs. Hudson. "Sherlock won't mind; just be sure not to touch his experiments."

"Oh God, no. I wouldn't dream of it," said John decidedly. His face creased with concern; unluckily, he'd been introduced to one of Sherlock's experiments last night and he certainly wouldn't touch any of them. That of course was before the snogging; John's frown twitched into a smirk. He slowly followed the lady in purple up to the second floor landing.

Lestrade ushered them into the flat. Sergeant Donovan was in the kitchen with that forensics idiot, Anderson plus a couple more police-types. "There's hands, human hands, in bowls in the cabinets and under the sink. What kind of creepy psychopath collects hands?" asked Donovan.

John sucked in a breath. This was none of his business. The less said, the sooner he could leave.

"It's a sign of criminal insanity,"answered the weasel-faced forensics specialist."That man is a clear threat to society…"

"They're for an experiment," John swallowed, as all eyes turned to him. So much for minding his own business. "The hands are for an experiment. He explained it to me. He got the hands from some bloke at St. Barts."

"Not a bloke, a woman, a Doctor Hooper, actually," said Lestrade, staring at John like a suspicious drill sergeant. John half expected Lestrade to order John to 'drop and give me fifty pushups'.

"OK, so he got them from Doctor Hooper," agreed the ex-soldier. "Nevertheless, he's trying to determine the rate of decay for human skin in various concentrations of chlorinated water and also unchlorinated water. He said a case depends on it."

"Well, that brings us to my first question. Since when did you become such good friends with Sherlock Holmes, that he'd discuss his experiments with you?"asked the detective inspector.

"I could be wrong, but I think that's none of you business," said John, his voice frigid.

"It could be," said Lestrade

" It really couldn't," said John, taking his ready-stance, feet spread slightly apart, limbs loose, back straight and chin extended. "And perhaps you could explain why _you're_ here, in Mr. Holmes' flat," demanded Captain John Hamish Watson, RAMC. "D'you have a warrant?"

"Not exactly," said Lestrade with a smile at John's challenge. "It's a drugs bust." The greying detective leaned back comfortably into his chair.

"Seriously?, Holmes-a junkie?" asked John. " I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, and you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational."

"Watson, you probably want to shut up now," said Lestrade."

"Yeah, but come on," scoffed Captain Watson.

Lestrade gave the former soldier a wry smile.

"No." John chewed his lip uncertainly. Of course, if they'd found something, Sherlock wouldn't have been able to dash off. "You didn't find anything, did you?" he asked, his confidence returning.

"We found human eyes, in the microwave," called out Sally Donovan.

"It's an experiment," asserted John, exuding false bravado. He was reasonably certain that they were an experiment. "Please put them back, Sergeant Donovan. So, Detective Inspector, can you tell me what is this _really_ about?"

"First, you tell me why you're really here," Countered DI Lestrade

"I was invited," said John. "Sherlock sought me out yesterday, and we discussed a case that we have common interest in. It also turns out that he was looking for a flat mate, and I'm looking for a new flat. He invited me to consider sharing this flat."

"I don't think that's a good idea," said Lestrade, concerned for Sherlock's safety.

"Again, none of your concern. As it happens, I've pretty much decided against the flat share… for reasons that do not concern you," he said repressively, as if Lestrade were an errant corporal.

"Oh, but Doctor Watson, there's another bedroom upstairs...if you'll be needing two bedrooms," chimed in Mrs. Hudson.

"Of course we'll be needing two," said John. He worried that the seemingly omniscient Jim Mor-whatever might catch wind of John and Sherlock's almost-relationship. "Well, we would be needing two, if I was staying. You know, I'm not actually gay,"' he added, trying to sink that ship once and for all.

"Okay, Detective Inspector, if there's no drugs, why are you still here?" asked John again.

"Sherlock is helping us on a case, actually," said DI Lestrade, giving in, "four apparent serial suicides. You must have heard about it on the news?"

"Yeah, they all took the same poison, and none of them seemed to have had any reason to want to kill themselves," said John. This was an unexpected complication. Well it shouldn't have been unexpected, John thought rather crossly. After all, Sherlock called himself, a consulting detective. This is what Sherlock did; he was a detective.

John was soaked to the bone and chilled. This was really too confusing, on top of his psuedo-date with Jim the madman. It was as if John had been magically transported into an alternate universe. Oh God, I better stop watching the telly, thought John. He bit his lip, trying very hard to think rationally, like a soldier, like a professional. "Right," continued John, "So you lot had no clue where to go with this case, and then you called in Mr. Holmes."

"Right,"the detective inspector quickly answered, before Donovan could protest. "You _have_ managed to spend some time with Sherlock; haven't you?. Anyway, I had Sherlock out to the crime scene, and then he ran off, yelling about a case, a little pink case. Well, he found it, of course; he's Sherlock. He found it in a skip, and brought the pink case back to his flat.,"

Watson's brows furrowed in concentration. What was significance of the pink case, he wondered,?

"The case belonged to our most recent victim,"Lestrade explained further, upon seeing John's confusion.. "Somehow, Sherlock knew it was missing from our crime scene. And he knew it was pink, because, he said, she dressed in that '_alarming shade of pink'_. Don't ask; it's a Sherlock thing. Th_e problem_ is that he didn't _tell_ us when he found this case. I knew he'd find it. I'm not stupid, and I knew he wouldn't tell us. But that's illegal, withholding evidence."

"O-Kay? But a drugs bust…"

"That got us in the door," sniffed Donovan. The last of the Yarders were leaving, a couple of them sniggering at something they'd seen in the cluttered flat. John was left with Lestrade, Donovan and the forensics weasel.

"Right. And the victim's case told him something important?" asked John, beginning to pace.

"Oh yeah, somehow it told him that she lost her phone," John looked up questioningly, and Sally continued, "then he went on about Jennifer Wilson's still-born daughter, Rachel. As always, he was an insensitive prat. He kept on about the baby's name, Rachel. He said that the murderer still had Wilson's phone on him…"

"Murderer? Wait, I thought these were suicides," said John, stopping in his tracks to face the Detective Inspector. "You said, suicides. The paper…I read it this morning. It said, suicides…

"Well, Sherlock thinks they're murders, and I have to agree with him, God help me," said Lestrade, ruefully.

"And then he used GPS," continued the earnest, dark-haired sergeant. "Then he punched in the e-mail address,"

"which he found on Wilson's case," said Anderson, who was feeling left out.

"Yeah, so he typed it onto his laptop," said Donovan, "and used the password which was…"

"Rachel?" said John.

"And, according to the GPS, the phone was right here, in this flat, which just happens to belong to our favorite psychopath," said Anderson, chiming back in.

"He's not a psychopath,"said John, standing at parade rest. He was deep in thought, his blue eyes distant.

"And how would you know he's not a psychopath?" challenged Anderson.

"Hmmm? The MD after m'name. MD-me doctor?" he said, with a fake smile. "Not to mention, I know some psychopaths, and Mr. Holmes is not like them. Okay, he's solving the mystery; everything's going well. So, then why did he leave; where did he go?"

"He got in a cab. He just drove off in a cab," said Mrs. Hudson, who had been forgotten by the others. She wrung her hands. Now that Sherlock was gone, why didn't the police leave too. What if they searched her flat? Would they confront her about those herbal soothers?

"He leaves. He does that," said Donovan. "He bloody leaves. We're wasting our time. He's just a lunatic, and he'll always let everyone down. And now, you're wasting your time too, Dr. Watson. Don't try to be his friend; he doesn't have friends. I'm warning you; he'll let you down."

"Okay, Donovan, Anderson…we're done here," said Lestrade. Watson certainly wasn't involved in these serial suicides, and apparently Sherlock had lost interest in the soldier already. Besides, Doctor Watson was quite right; it wasn't Lestrade's business anyway. The detective inspector stood and looked around the room for a last helpful clue. He didn't find one. Sergeant Donovan and the forensics expert left the room, clomping loudly down the steps.

"But the phone?" asked John. "Did you ever find the phone? You said it was here?"

Lestrade seemed to deflate, "Nah. We can't find it. Damn GPS must be malfunctioning." The exhausted detective inspector dry scrubbed his face in frustration. "Why did he do that? Why did he have to leave?" he asked John.

"You know him better than I do," said John, looking up from the quiescent laptop on the desk.

"I've known him for five years, and, no, I don't," said Lestrade.

"So why do you put up with him?" asked John.

"Because I'm desperate, that's why. And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and one day, if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one." Lestrade sighed and left.

John looked at the dark, resting computer screen. He fiddled with the mouse. The screen re-set, and he got a map. The GPS still showed the victim's phone was at 221B. But there was a circle thing, and that, according to friends who had tried to teach John to use computers, usually meant that the computer was _thinking_, or something along those lines. Maybe they needed to re-boot it? Unfortunately, John's computer skills were rudimentary at best. He scratched his head.

"I'm sure you're disappointed that he's not here, Doctor Watson," said Mrs. Hudson coming into the sitting room from the kitchen. "Sherlock, I mean. It was that cabbie. He showed up out of the blue; he must have given Sherlock an idea, and then off he dashed! Now don't get discouraged, that's just Sherlock's way. He does get excited about his murder cases, it's not decent," said Mrs Hudson, fondly. "I wish you'd give the flat share a chance, Doctor Watson. You'd be so good for Sherlock. He needs a friend. I think he might be good for you too," she added archly.

John blushed and raised his eyebrows, looking around the very cluttered, very odd room. There was a human skull on the mantle and beakers and test tubes in the kitchen. It was a disaster, and he liked it. It was comfortable. Somehow, it looked like home,. "Mrs. Hudson, in all honesty, I'd like to try it, but I'm afraid it's just not feasible right now," said John sadly.

"Well you can't leave, just now," said Mrs. Hudson, unwilling to let this ship sail, "You're all over wet; you'll get a chill, if you're not careful. Why don't you sit and rest, while I get you a cuppa?"

John froze. He was _dripping_ wet. Good God, what if he soiled the rug? Fortunately, the rug was dark and not all that clean really. Besides, Mrs. Hudson was probably not the type to shoot people over dirty rugs. He hoped not, anyway.

"Thank you, a cup of tea would be lovely; you're very kind," John said relaxing just a bit when she smiled blandly and did not brandish a handgun at him.

"Just this once, dear, I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper," said the lady in purple turning to go back to her flat

"Couple of biscuit's too, if you've got them,' said John absently. Why wouldn't the GPS give the right location of the lady in pink's phone.

"Not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson called out, as she descended the steps.

The purple lady had left to put on a kettle in her own flat. Probably wise what with the hands and eyeballs in this kitchen, considered John. He removed his very damp leather jacket. The Easter-egg-lavender jumper hurt his eyes, but he was, in fact, chilled and decided to leave the jumper on.

John paced and pondered the mystery. Like I can do anything about the pink lady's death. John snorted derisively at the very idea.

Still, four serial murders, which looked like suicides. It was weird.

And one of the victims, poor Jennifer Wilson who had had a stillborn babe, had planted her phone on the murderer. He looked at the phone number on the screen. Using his own phone, John tried to call the pink lady's mobile; it rang out. But it didn't ring here in the flat.

And somehow, Sherlock got inspired just as a cabbie showed up out of the blue.

Weird. The thinking circle, as John called that round symbol on the computer screen, was still there. Maybe the phone wasn't here; maybe the GPS couldn't get a lock on the phone, because, maybe, the phone was in motion.

And just who was the cabbie? There were lots of cabbies in London. Must be hundreds, maybe thousands. There was no reason that the cabbie would be that psychopathic cabbie who worked for Jim. No reason at all.

"Mrs. Hudson," called John. A sick feeling settled in his stomach, as he trotted down the stairs, "Mrs. Hudson!" She appeared at the bottom of the steps, looking up curiously. "Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the cabbie, what did he look like?"

"Oh just a normal little man, grayish hair I think," she said, raising her hand to her lips and thinking.

"Anything else? Anything? Clothes, glasses, hat, his voice, a name,?" He prompted desperately.

"Well, he had on a little hat, a cap, a nice little cap. He needs it in this weather. And he wore an old, jumper, bit worn, really. He was very insistent, came right up the stairs. But still, he was a nice, polite, soft-spoken little man…"

John pivoted and pounded back up the stairs. He had to get his jacket; he had to get his phone that was in the jacket. As he entered the sitting room of Sherlock's flat, John heard beep, beep, beep, beep... Like a heart monitor, or a sonar device. He dashed over to the desk; the thinking circle was gone. The pink lady's phone wasn't moving anymore. The GPS locked on the Roland-Kerr Further Education College.

He shoved his arms into his jacket, grabbed Sherlock's laptop and ran to the stairs. "Mrs. Hudson, I have to go. Sherlock, he's in danger,"

"Oh, no, not again! But, but that's Sherlock's laptop," murmured the purple lady.

"He's. In. Danger!" said John. "Look, I'm good for the laptop. I promise," John called out over his shoulder as he dashed out of the door, slamming it behind him.

Oh dear. John Watson wasn't the sitting down type after all, thought Mrs. Hudson. He was the dashing around type, just like Sherlock.

And he had seemed like such a nice young man too! But now the young ruffian had just stolen Sherlock's laptop. Well no dou Sherlock could sort _that_ out when he got back.

But John Watson said Sherlock was in danger; oh dear, Sherlock was always in danger. This, on top of that horrible drugs bust was just too much! Mrs. Hudson went in search of her herbal soothers.

* * *

John kept loosing signal as the taxi sped to the Roland-Kerr Further Education College, so the former soldier could not reach Detective Inspector Lestrade on his mobile.

He was certain that Sherlock had left with that psycho-cabbie, Jefferson Hope. John tried to control his nervous agitation with slow, controlled breathing.

John's taxi pulled into a poorly lit car park. The rain had finally stopped, but a fine mist drifted down, softening the edges of the stark, utilitarian school buildings. The mist also left the car park glistening, with an ugly, oily sheen. Nasty, uncomfortable-looking place, thought John opening the door before the cab came to a stop.

John shoved some bills at the cabbie and took off across the lot past an empty taxi. Not Good. He ran to the nearest building. It was like one of his nightmares. He couldn't move fast enough; he would be too late.

John burst though the door. Then he stopped to take stock of his situation. Breathing heavily, he pulled out the gun given to him by his unwanted psycho-boyfriend from hell.

The handgun was a Browning L9A1; how did Jim know that the Browning was John's favorite? God, it was so creepy!

He checked the magazine…standard 9mm cartridges…he slammed it back on, flipped off the safety. OK, time for search and rescue. He was already running and peering into the classrooms, as he chambered the first round.

* * *

"….Come on! Play the game," urged the grey haired cabbie.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and strode back to the table. He snatched up the bottle containing a single pink-specked capsule.

'Ohhh," cooed the taxi driver. Interesting. SO what do you think? Shall we? Really…what do you think?" he smiled mischievously. "Can you beat me?"…

* * *

His wet shoes squeaked on the waxed lino, and John gave up any pretense at stealth. There were too many rooms, and there were more floors and another whole building.

"Sherlock!" he yelled, his desperation echoed hollowly, mocking him...

* * *

" ...Are you clever enough to bet your life?" asked the cabbie, taunting his prey. He knew how people thought. He knew how this genius thought. And he had him, right in the palm of his hand. It was too easy; not even a challenge, thought Jeff Hope with contempt.

Sherlock held up the bottle. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He was absolutely certain that he was right. He was always right.

"I bet you get bored, don't you?" the cabbie continued, " A man like you. So clever. But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it?..."

* * *

John reached the large room and the end of the long hall and barged through the double-doors. The ex-soldier panted and glanced through the window. Diamond-like water droplets scattered the light coming from the study hall across the way. John stared aghast; he saw Sherlock in the other building.

Sherlock, his hair brunet again, Sherlock wearing that long, wool coat, Sherlock facing that psychotic cabbie, Hope, and _holding something tiny_ in his long fingers.

A pill? A poison?

"Sherlock!" his voice rang out impotently.

This cannot be happening, thought John, in a panic. He cannot take that pill. I have to stop this, but there's no time to get over to that room. There was only one way to stop this.

Breathe in. He cannot die. John raised his gun steadying it with both hands, his legs automatically spread apart for stability. Breathe out… His mind focused. John's universe narrowed to the two men the other room. Breathe in… His target was blocked. The men across the way shifted incrementally.

Breathe out… now Sherlock completely blocked the sniper's shot…a gentle pull on the trigger was all it would take… Breathe in. He couldn't hit the cabbie without hitting the tall detective. So wait for it; you know how to wait... Breathe in…

Sherlock held the pill up, studying it; then he shifted to the side by inches. John's finger moved by a millimeter… and the cabbie had shifted with him…John gently touched the trigger, he caressed it as softly as the touch of a butterfly's wing… Wait for the shot and breathe in…Sweat tricked down the snipers face and neck. Unimportant…. Idiot! Don't take that damn pill!

Captain Watson, wait for your target…John was on fire; he couldn't breathe…Wrong. John was trained. He kept breathing. Just breathe …Only an inch, that was all he needed. If one of them moves an inch… his finger gently, lovingly began pulling…just a _fraction_ of an inch…

* * *

"…you're still the addict" crooned the cabbie. "But this…this is what you're really addicted to. You'll do anything, anything at all…to _stop being bored._ You're not bored now, are ya?"

Sherlock turned slightly raising his hand up, his face eager. He would prove that he was right.

The cabbie smirked, "Isn't it good…" An explosion choked off his words. Pain exploded in his shoulder, throwing him backwards and onto the floor.

Sherlock Holmes whirled around; he found a tiny, neat hole in the window. Most likely from a handgun. No one visible in the windows across the way. No one on the grounds or on the roof…wrong angle anyway. He'd been so close, it had been almost like taking a hit or reaching an orgasm. Sherlock was thwarted, and it infuriated him.

The cabbie lay on the floor bleeding out. It was a mortal wound, but the man was still conscious.

"Was I right? I was, wasn't I?" demanded the consulting detective. The cabbie looked up at him with contempt. He was the one dying, and he dared look at Sherlock with contempt!

"Did I get it right?" His own face suffused with anger and frustration, the dark detective flung the pill into the dying man's grey face.

"Okay, tell me this. Your sponsor, who was it? I want a name!" demanded the tall, man looming over the cabbie like an angel of death.

"No!," gasped Jeff Hope.

"You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you. Give. Me. A name!" The dark angel pushed his foot into the bubbling wound, and the cabbie screamed in anguish.

"A name! Now!" The detective ground his foot into the wound, harder. "THE NAME!"

"Mor-i-ar-ty!" screamed Jeff. He couldn't see his children. He wanted to see his children. All he saw, before the rushing darkness engulfed him, was the dark angel mouthing the cursed name, Moriarty.

* * *

It was foggy; the flashing police lamps lit up the night with bursts of red, blue and white. Another emergency vehicle flashed orange in glaring contrast.

Police and medics swarmed the area. Sherlock sat on the back on the ambulance. "Why have I got this blanket?" he fingered the thick orange blanket. "They keep putting this blanket on me."

"Yeah, it's for shock," explained Lestrade.

"I'm not in shock," complained the pale detective.

"Yeah, but some of the guys want to take photographs," said Lestrade, shrugging his shoulders. The detective inspector had already taken a photo with his own mobile.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in disgust at the inanity of it all.

"So the shooter-no sign?" Sherlock asked carefully; he already knew who it was, of course. The only question was, how? Sherlock's mind sifted through the possibilities. Choosing and discarding scenarios as he conversed with Lestrade. He required more data to complete the analysis.

"Cleared off before we got here. A guy like that would have had enemies I suppose," Lestrade riposted. Naturally, he had his own suspicions.

"The bullet they've just dug out of the wall's from a handgun. Handguns are woefully commonplace, despite the dedicated efforts of you Yarders. It could have been anyone…" said the consulting detective trying to distract, misdirect.

"But it wasn't, Lestrade spat out. "A kill shot, over that distance, from that kind of weapon? That's a crack shot. Sherlock, I've already sent a team over to his flat, and _you_ are staying here."

Sherlock got up.

"Where do you think you're going?" demanded Lestrade angrily.

"I just need to…I need to go home," said younger man. I need to locate John Watson, thought Sherlock, his mind racing with plans, with possible alibis. John just killed a man for me. I need to warn John…

"But I've still got questions for you," insisted detective inspector.

"Oh what now? Look, I'm in shock! I've got a blanket," said Sherlock raising the edge of his orange cloak as proof. "I think I should return to my flat…"

"Fine, I'll take you," said Lestrade. Until they rounded up Watson, the older detective needed to keep an eye on the genius. "Now sit! Donovan, come here for a mo."

"We'll return to my flat, by way of St. Bart's" added Sherlock helpfully, while he typed into his phone.

* * *

As the adrenalin died down, John felt the chill settle in. If he'd gone for a swim in the bloody Thames, he couldn't be any wetter than he was now.

He looked around at the half empty bus. He dripped water on the floor. No one seemed to care if John Watson got the floor wet. It wasn't even a carpet. Nevertheless, it made him uncomfortable.

And then too, thought John, the gun didn't help. He kept thinking that everyone on the bus knew that he had an illegal handgun stuck in his waistband. A handgun used in a fatal shooting. What a God awful mess.

He jumped when his pocket vibrated.

His mobile. Oh yeah, Jim gave it back to me. Shite! It was probably the police trying to track him down for murder. Or worse, it could be that psychopathic Irishman, Mor-whatever.

**Where are you? SH**

SH? SH? Sherlock Holmes. Well, that didn't take long.

**I'm at my flat. It's late. I was sleeping.**

**No- you aren't. Where are you? SH**

Okay...thought John.

**On a bus, heading back to my flat.**

**Bad idea. Police already waiting there. Go at once to 221B Baker. Mrs. Hudson is waiting for you. At the back door. SH**

**Remember- the BACK DOOR. SH**

**And sign your posts. SH**

**I don't understand. JW**

**Yes you do. Get to 221 B now. SH**

**And John-use the back door. SH**

Arrogant bugger. I can't go back there. Jim, the Demon-Psychopath, will find out.

God, the police already know it was me. They'll charge me with murder. God, I am not, not, not going to prison. I should jump in the bloody Thames and get it over with.

And why the hell is Sherlock dragging in poor old Mrs Hudson. She won't have a clue what's going on. But what if something happened to her. Maybe she needs help. Fine. I'll go. but I won't stay.

John got off two stops later and began running to Baker Street, trying to stick to the alleyways. Nevertheless, John caught a camera tracking him at least once.

Slogging through mud and rubbish, John finally found the back of 221B. A yellowish lamp, haloed in the mist, shone over the door. Mrs. Hudson, wearing a pink and purple flower-print dressing gown and fluffy pink slippers, ripped open the door.

"Come along, John dear," she called, "Stop dawdling."

John dear? When did I become John dear, wondered John? He tripped up the back steps and into her small, cozy kitchen still panting from his jog.

"Shoes and jacket off, young man," she ordered. Without hesitation, the soldier followed the command. He untied his laces and struggled to pull off the wet shoes. "That's right, dear, leave them on the mat and your jacket on the chair."

"Look Mrs. Hudson, here's Sherlock's laptop," said John, setting it on the table. "I can't stay. I don't want you to get into, um, any, um trouble and…"

"We really don't have time, John. You took much too long getting her," she did not let him get a word in edgewise. "Drop your gun in the towel."

John's eyes bugged out. "Just make sure the safety's on, dear," she insisted, holding out her hand, which was draped in an old tea towel

John sighed. He pulled out the browning and removed the magazine, making sure the chamber was empty. He checked the safety was on and dropped the gun and the magazine carefully into her tea towel.

"That's right, John dear. Now drink some tea," she shoved a mug at him. It was lukewarm and full of sugar. He pulled a face but drank it quickly, as she meticulously cleaned the gun, removing any fingerprints.

"Yes, well thank you Mrs…"

"Right-o," clothes off and into the washer, everything, now." She pointed to the washer in the alcove next to her kitchen.

"What? I can't take them off here," protested the former soldier, his voice squeaking ignominiously.

"Men!" she huffed, rolling her eyes. "John dear, the police will be here any minute. Sherlock can only stall for so long. Now, clothes off and into that washer!"

Sherlock! Well, that explained everything. Sort of. John pulled off his Easter-egg lavender jumper. "Um, I think it's made of some special wool and can't be washed," he muttered, glowering. He held the lavender horror out at arm's length, as if it offended him. It did offend him.

"Oh for heaven's sake," Mrs Hudson snatched the jumper and dropped it into the washer. "Strip, John Watson! Now!"

With shaking hands, John removed his clothes handing his phone, keys and cash roll to the drill sergeant, who was disguised as a kindly old lady, dressed in a floral nightmare.

"Now quickly, run upstairs to your flat, John, and into the shower. A nice hot shower will do you the world of good. I don't like your color at all. I do believe you're in shock, dear. I'll make you some more tea too, with plenty of sugar." She seemed like such a nice woman, in her garish flower-print robe.

John followed his orders and trotted up the stairs, his face as red as his pants.

"John dear?" she called.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson, ma'am" responded the soldier, stopping on the landing.

"Thank you for saving Sherlock, dear, and remember to scrub your hands well, use lots of soap."

"Yes, ma'am,' said the soldier biting his lip. He turned to go look for the washroom.

"John dear, I'm waiting for your pants. Just toss them down here."

John didn't even pause; after all, it was a direct order. He stripped, hiding behind the turn of the stairs and threw the pants down before he charged up the remaining stairs and into Sherlock's flat.

**A/N** **Thank you** to everyone who is reading this fic. I am sorry for the long delay in posting Chapter 15. At least it's not a real short one. And Chapter 16 is almost ready too. It should be up soon-depending on the internet while I am on vacation.

**Thank** you to everyone who encouraged me with your wonderful reviews especially EJ 12212012, Kyuubigurl74, Wicked Winter, Quiet Time, InuChimera7410, anyrei1, power0girl, AiLoveS, SamuelE8688, Berylbatch, stringed deducer, Charles Lee Ray and sasodei-iz-awesome.

**Disclaimer**-You've probably all noticed that I don't have any claims or rights to Sherlock, and this is hardly a serious work of fiction, and so, won't be earning any money. It's just for fun, yeah?


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N** Oh yeah. Just a reminder that this is **rated M** which means **no one under 18 **should read this, right? Of course right. Lots of inappropriate language and some naughty bits ahead. You've been warned.

* * *

_Previously: John didn't even pause; it was a direct order. He stripped, hiding behind the turn of the stairs and threw the pants down before he charged up the remaining stairs and into Sherlock's flat. _

* * *

**Chapter 16**

Several minutes later, John stood in Sherlock's shower, trying to rinse the day's shocks down the drain. Well hell, who wouldn't be shocked after being kidnapped, molested and threatened? And let's not forget tonight's highlight, finding his hot, new crush playing some perverted suicide game with the psycho-cabbie-from-hell, which forced John Watson to shoot the nasty psycho-cabbie to death. After all, John had to save his handsome idiotic crush from taking a poison pill, didn't he? Bloody hell.

John turned to let the hot water pour down his face. It was almost too hot, but, God, it felt good on his aching muscles.

Christ, it's all so farfetched. No one would ever believe it. John couldn't believe it.

The ex-army doctor thought about writing it all down, even blogging about it. His old therapist had wanted him to blog. He'd almost like to blog about what had happened over the past few days, but, of course, he couldn't, because the other nasty psychopaths, AKA Moran and Mor-whatever, would kill him, his sister and the handsome idiot who almost took the damn pill.

Just thinking about it all was exhausting. John tried to block it all out-just for a minute. He breathed slowly, steadily and slowly relaxed, as the hot water streamed down his tense body. He scrubbed his hands again, following Mrs. Sergeant Hudson's orders, and then he lathered the rest of his body with the amazing, lavender-scented soap.

What kind of guy has lavender bath soap and all these fancy hair products? A hot, sexy guy with razor-sharp cheek bones and eyes that change colors like the sky, blue or blue-green or grey or misty silver-depending on the man's internal barometer. I wonder what those eyes look like in a storm; I bet lightening shoots out of his eyes, when the man is really pissed off…or when he fucks the living daylights out of someone...

Okay, reality check. Remember that the hot, sexy idiot nearly killed himself; he's a madman. John felt like punching something again, preferably the tall, dark-haired detective with that alabaster skin.

The soldier stopped scrubbing. Since when do I use the word, alabaster, or, for that matter, worry about lavender soap? Shite, since when do I obsess over another bloke's body? Didn't take me long to switch sides, thought John drily. Maybe I really _have been_ sexually repressed all these years... Hell, wouldn't that make an interesting blog. Yeah, John's Incredible Journey into the Exciting World of Bi-sexuality. Yup, meet the new and improved John Watson, the sharp shooter who smells like lavender. John snorted at himself.

Actually, the soap wasn't just lavender; there was some other herb mixed in. Maybe it was camomile. Whatever. It smelled good. It smelled just like him, just like Sherlock. Mmmm... John thought, stretching luxuriously, and now I smell just like Sherlock Holmes. And that thought was _hot,_ and John felt himself blushing like an idiot.

And his cock immediately responded too. Damn. He really wanted to reach down and...

He didn't dare wank off in here. This wasn't even his shower. What if Sherlock came in and saw him? John pictured the detective watching him, as John Watson wanked off in Sherlock's shower. And that thought did it for him. He now had a throbbing, aching hard on, in someone else's shower.

He thought he heard pounding. Thunder? No. Christ! Maybe the police are at the front door; Mrs. Hudson had said they'd be coming. I gotta find some clothes, thought John desperately. He shut off the tap

Just then bathroom door banged open explosively.

"Police!" screeched a woman's voice, "come out, with your hands up!"

Thanks to years in the military, John remained calm, cool and collected, "Ummm, I'm not…I can't…"stuttered John, dashing the water out of his eyes and making it harder to see. Oh God, no towel, no clothes, "Look, I...I haven't got a towel." Okay, maybe he wasn't completely calm.

"Out! I have a gun, and you have two seconds to come out with your hands up," yelled the policewoman firmly.

Still blinking, John peered around the shower curtain and looked down the barrel of a gun that trembled ever so slightly. Standing behind the gun, Sergeant Donovan glared, her eyes narrowed. She was ready to shoot, and she was scared. Shite, nothin' worse than a nervous hand pointing a gun at your head.

"Get. Out. Of there. Hands over your head," Donovan barked; she waved the gun once for emphasis.

Hoping to keep Donovan calm, John stepped out. For a second, he tried to hold the curtain over his nether regions.

"Hands up," she yelled, he saw her trigger-finger twitch. Not Good.

John clenched his jaw and stepped out on to the cold tiles, with his hands over his head. He stood dripping wet; his blue eyes blazed in his crimson face.

"Sergeant Donovan," he greeted her through his gritted teeth, trying for a pleasant, businesslike tone. At the same time, John's engorged, red and purple cock jauntily saluted Sergeant Donovan. Oh bloody, fucking hell.

"You!" she looked down, staring at his saluting member, and then she looked back up to his burning face. "Y, You, you…" Donovan stuttered.

"Yes, me. I've surrendered, and I'm unarmed, and I'm following your orders. So would you kindly release the trigger?" asked John politely. Perhaps his voice was pitched just a tad bit too high, but this was probably the most embarrassing moment of his entire life. He stifled a hysterical giggle when his unabashed erection waved at her yet again.

They were at a stand-off.

From somewhere in the flat, Sherlock's deep voice boomed out. "John? John? Are you down here, I thought you would be in your room," John sighed, as he heard the pounding footsteps. Oh good, more witnesses. His aching member bobbed happily at the thought of Sherlock. Bloody hell.

John turned his stony gaze up to the ceiling. He tried to hum his song but couldn't remember a damn word. Hell, he couldn't even remember how to breathe.

John looked down in time to see Lestrade push in to the room behind Donovan, "What's all this...", he began. His eyes boggled more than hers. "Donovan, what happened? Did he threaten you?" asked the detective inspector.

Sherlock appeared, leaning over the DI's shoulder, appraising the naked blond dripping all over his bathroom tiles. John saluted the newcomers. Sherlock had never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.

"No sir, but the suspect refused to exit the shower..."said Donovan, her dark eyes roving up and down John's body yet again.

"Because I wanted a towel, just a bloody towel!" snapped the former soldier.

Sherlock took in a deep breath; both Lestrade and Donovan stared at his naked and highly aroused boyfriend. And Lestrade, at least, was responding to John's virile display. Sherlock would have to either kill or distract Lestrade. Distraction was probably the better option, what with the armed and very hostile Sergeant Donovan standing in front of John.

"Oh for the love of God. Donovan, put your gun down," said Lestrade, "It's not like he's hiding any weapons."

"No! I won't," she declared, squaring her stance. "He's a suspected murderer and a danger…"

"He's only a danger, if one of us bends over," said Sherlock from behind Lestrade. He had to get them away from John.

"Honestly, Donovan, you're perfectly safe" said Sherlock, drily. "And even you have to admire the man's ability to stand up under pressure." Yes, excellent, at least Lestrade had turned to face Sherlock.

A joke, thought John. That _man_ just made a joke, no two jokes, about _my_…_my cock_. John was momentarily blinded by his humiliation and anger. Maybe, he thought fervently, maybe the blindness was a symptom of a burst aneurysm, and maybe, just maybe, John Watson was about to die. He could only hope.

Lestrade and Donovan began to chuckle, then to laugh out loud. Sally Donovan bit her lips, trying, unsuccessfully to stop. Lestrade's face was cherry red, as he leaned against the door frame and laughed uproariously. John hoped the detective inspector choked on it. All the while, Sherlock Holmes smirked insufferably.

It was unforgivable… John would never speak to that man again. He would probably never speak to _anyone _ever again. John pressed his lips together, sealing them for all eternity. John was going to kill himself and then come back to haunt the arrogant, bastard Homes. And he STILL wouldn't talk to that bloody, fucking, son of bitch…

"Oh, Sherlock," said Mrs. Hudson sadly, trying to talk over Lestrade's guffaws and Donovan's sniggering. "Sherlock, where are your manners? Get your John a dressing gown.'

"I'm _NOT HIS JOHN_," seethed John though gritted teeth. His vow of silence was forgotten. However, he decided that it was okay with him, if Donovan pulled the trigger. Really, it would only hurt for a second.

John glared from under his heavily furrowed brows, daring her to shoot, as he deliberately lowered his arms. He rubbed his aching shoulder. Oh, right, everyone got to see his hideous scar too. And Jim's bite marks. Just fuckin' brilliant. He could imagine the small talk around the cooler at Scotland Yard tomorrow morning. Brilliant.

Donovan, still sniggering, finally backed away, with her gun lowered to the floor.

The blond soldier silently smoldered, which was devastatingly beautiful, decided Sherlock. The tall detective stretched his long arm out to snatch his blue silk dressing robe down from off a hook. The dark blue silk would look so good against John's golden skin, thought the World's Only Consulting Detective. And of course the color mirrored John's eyes.

The blond soldier tore proffered dressing gown out of Sherlock's hands. Still glaring daggers at the taller brunet, he shoved his arms into the sleeves and tied the belt in a knot, without even drying off.

John definitely seemed upset. Hmm, perhaps, considered Sherlock, perhaps he should make the police stop leering at his new boyfriend…

Sherlock sharply elbowed the detective inspector, who had enjoyed the spectacle far too much. Lestrade winced in pain but took the not-so-subtle hint and slowly dragged Donovan out to the kitchen, where they both collapsed into hysterical laughter.

Sherlock leaned down to ask John if he was alright, but John pulled away with a furious, little hiss.

Oh. Oh, for some reason, John is angry with _me_, thought the consulting detective. John stormed past Sherlock without a backwards glance. It was a pity, because the little soldier was frankly adorable, enveloped in Sherlock's oversized robe.

John was careful not to trip over the hem of that blasted, oversized, silk robe. No need to look more ridiculous than he already looked. He ignored the ridiculous, giggling detectives and gratefully accepted a hot mug of tea from Mrs. Hudson.

Had she seen him starkers too, John wondered? The thought made John gasp, and he choked on his hot, sugary tea. He sputtered and coughed while Lestrade, still laughing, pounded his back. Regrettably, John did not choke to death. Dear God, would the humiliation never end?

Sherlock stormed into the kitchen, and shouldered Lestrade aside.

"What did you do? What did you say?" demanded Sherlock furiously. He tried to pull John close, while pounding the doctor's back.

Lestrade protested that he didn't say a word. John tried to demand that Sherlock keep his big, stupid, hands to himself, unhappily, the ex-army doctor only managed to wheeze and sputter.

In exasperation, Mrs. Hudson took charge. She led John out into the sitting room and sat him on the settee, with a warm, comfy, crocheted rug tucked over his legs. After handing him his tea and patting his hand, She returned to the kitchen to give a piece of her mind to the others. She kept the others in the kitchen, while she made more tea and gave her statement to Sergeant Donovan.

It was peaceful in the empty sitting room. John ignored the tall, brunet man, who made jokes about other blokes bloody erections, that incredibly stupid Mr. tall, dark and handsome, who would keep leaning through the door to stare rudely at John. Instead, the soldier paid attention to the impressive Mrs. Hudson. She should have been in the military, what with her ability to organize and give orders.

Finally able to breathe again, the sniper concentrated on the landlady's every word. Evidently, she could lie easily and believably. It was a valuable trait, under the right circumstances-like tonight, for instance. Not only did she lie well, she said it all so simply and clearly. Surely John would be able to repeat the lies and support her story later on. Except that John knew that he was not a very convincing liar. His forehead furrowed as he scowled into his overly sweet tea.

She told the detectives about her concern over poor, wet, chilled John-dear, who was probably coming down with pneumonia. She explained how she had convinced him to allow her to dry his sopping wet clothes, while he took a nice hot shower. Just the thing for a chill. She expressed her outrage at the way the police took advantage of the poor boy, a wounded war veteran and all. Making him stand naked and dripping wet, for no good reason. And just wait and see how that turned out, just hear him coughing again. (Never mind that I choked on the bloody tea, thought John) Well, the cough was just proof that he was destined to come down with a cold or perhaps, something much worse. Fortunately, she had put lemon in his tea, just the thing for a cough. She would just have to bring dear John some honey, if the cough kept up. And Mrs. Turner had given her some herbal tea...

No John was not impressed, he was awestruck, by Mrs. Hudson's performance. She made up the entire story and then distracted them with that Turner woman and honey and teas. She was almost as amazing as Sherlock. Wait, he was still mad at Sherlock. Wasn't he?

When Donovan came out to the sitting room for John's statement, the painful and truly mortifying erection was a thing of the past. He could also breath. Both of these improvements allowed him to speak normally once more.

In his statement, John confirmed Mrs. Hudson's story, although he confessed that he probably didn't have pneumonia. Mrs. Hudson shook her head gravely.

John confirmed that he _had_ considered a flat share with Sherlock Holmes. However,_ now_, he just wanted to go home. No, he would _not_ be moving into 221B. No he did not contemplate dating Sherlock Holmes, because John Watson was, in fact, _not gay_. There, that should satisfy the psycho-demonic-Irishman.

A small, not very nice part of John was pleased to read the disappointment and hurt that flared briefly across that arrogant, handsome Holmes face. Serves the ruddy bugger right for laughing at me. The rest of John Watson was already preparing an abject apology.

Meanwhile, John did not see how his housing arrangements or his sexual orientation concerned Scotland Yard. He sternly and resolutely refused to answer any more questions of such a personal nature.

No, he did not have a gun in his possession. That should have been obvious when he stepped out of the shower. This comment made both himself and Sergeant Donovan blush furiously. Sally wasn't half bad-looking when she blushed. Then she scowled at him. He glowered back.

No, he did not go to the Rolling Car Furthering Education School or what ever it called itself. And why on earth would he shoot a perfect stranger at that school, even if he did? Which he didn't. Because he was at 221B taking a shower. Yeah, John was a terrible liar.

John decided it was time to shut up and drink his cold, sickeningly sweet tea.

Lestrade studied the innocent looking little blond on the couch, quietly sipping his tea. The questioning was over. Doctor Watson chatted with the kindly housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, apparently about hand laundering cashmere jumpers. Just a nice, quiet, little, domesticated bloke.

In a pig's eye.

Lestrade didn't buy the whole innocent, little blond routine. Not for one second. There were a handful of people in all of Britain, who could have taken that shot tonight. And one of them was sitting on the settee discussing laundry soap.

Thanks to Sherlock, Lestrade already knew that John had met Jefferson Hope before. What a coincidence.

He had no proof, but Lestrade knew for a fact, that John Watson shot that cabbie in cold blood. And yes, that probably saved Sherlock's life. Still, the Detective Inspector had more questions, but he probably wasn't going to get them answered in front of witnesses.

"Donovan, please wait in the car," he said. She made to protest but backed down at the set look on his face. She huffed and swept out of the room.

"Mrs. Hudson," apologized the detective inspector, "I'm sorry, but I need to speak to Doctor Watson, alone."

"Yes, well, I'll just say good night then. Good night, John dear; you just sleep here tonight," said the old dear, patting his hand. "It's for the best," she added in a whisper. Only John saw her knowing wink. He blushed again.

"Good night, Sherlock. Now be nice to your guest. He's had a very trying day. Oh, and don't forget, Sherlock, he's fighting off pneumonia too. Give him plenty of tea with lemon..." Mrs. Hudson waved to Lestrade and slipped out of the room, favoring her dodgy hip and mumbling about bringing the boys up some honey.

"You too, Sherlock, out," said Lestrade, pointing at the door with his thumb.

"And leave you to ogle and harass my client, I think not," sniffed Sherlock.

"Ogle? You've got a lot of nerve, Sherlock. And anyway, you're not a bloody solicitor. So, bugger off. Now!" demanded the detective inspector, still slightly amused at Sherlock's antics.

"I never claimed to be a solicitor, Lestrade. Perhaps you should get your hearing checked," said Sherlock, placing himself between Lestrade and John.

John had taken a big risk to protect Sherlock tonight. The consulting detective did not want his soldier harassed by Lestrade. He also did not want the detective inspector alone with the scantily clad soldier. He had seen the way the detective examined John in the bathroom, and Lestrade's physical reaction had not escaped Sherlock's sharp eye either.

"Sherlock, I don't have time for games!" snapped Lestrade.

"Then you shouldn't play them, Lestrade," quipped Sherlock, "I am investigating a man who is threatening and harassing my client. I have reason to believe that the same man my have been involved in the serial murders. In my role as John Watson's consulting detective, I must be present during any interviews, his very life may depend upon it," finished Sherlock with a dramatic flourish.

He whirled around to make sure that John was still paying attention. He was gratified to note that he had John's full, appreciative attention.

"Lestrade…" Sherlock began again.

"Oh, shut it, Sherlock. Stay if you like," said the detective inspector, pinching the bridge of his nose wearily. "Okay, Watson, so you've got Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock Holmes covering for you, very effectively I might add. For starters, I'd like to know you managed to wrap them around your little finger in a few short days. I need answers, Watson, I'll take them off the record because I bloody well know that's all I'll get, but I need to know how you fit into all of this."

John's mouth dropped. Did the DI really know who shot the cabbie or was he bluffing? And what exactly was Lestrade suggesting? John never wrapped anyone around anything. Wait… that sounded bad. Oh dear God, John's thoughts shot off on another, decidedly inappropriate, tangent and his blood rushed south for the second time that night. He vividly imagined someone's long, tapered fingers wrapped around his eager, throbbing…

They were staring at him. Oh hell. Oh bloody hell. Sherlock was smirking. He knew _exactly _what John was thinking. Shite. John tried to recall his indignation from earlier but all he felt was pure lust.

"I, um, I don't know what..I don't know anything about…"John tried to explain, his voice thick and, dear God, he really needed a drink!

"Bull crap!" barked Lestrade. He stepped forward menacingly. He was certain that Watson's harsh voice was due to fear and guilt. He was usually a very good interrogator, and he was prepared to press his advantage. "You shot that cabbie, and I want to know who you were working for this time."

"AH," interceded Sherlock smoothly. Clearly, the his virile, little soldier was in no condition to fence with the best investigator that the Yard had to offer. Fortunately, Lestrade was no match for Sherlock Holmes. "The detective inspector thinks that this was all an elaborate set up between you and Moriarty, John. But to what purpose Lestrade?" He spun and turned his laser like focus back to the greying detective. "Do you suppose that all this was orchestrated, just to assassinate the cabbie? Or was it to impress me? What is the motive?" Sherlock moved so that he overshadowed the detective inspector. "You don't have a motive, because there _is_ no motive! Honestly, Lestrade, why you even try thinking is beyond me," finished the consulting detective dismissively. He nonchalantly tossed a Union Jack pillow onto John's lap.

Oh bloody hell, is it that obvious, thought John?

"Wait a minute," said John furrowing his brow and shaking his head in denial. He was a man, a soldier, he could speak for himself. "No. I'm not working for anyone. I didn't want to shoot… I didn't shoot…I, why the hell would I want to impress… anyone," sputtered John. Not the best explanation in the world. He glared at the arrogant younger man who apparently thought John just went around trying to impress cocky young consulting detectives.

Wait. Wait a bloody damn minute….Who the bloody hell is Moriarty, wondered the blond?

"Who the hell is Moriarty? D'you mean Jim?" asked John standing up and pulling his stupid silk robe shut. It kept sliding around, gaping open and …John abruptly dropped back down onto the settee and covered himself with the pillow again.

"Jim?" asked Sherlock, his eyes blazing. "Ahh, Moriarty's first name is Jim… how did you find that out?" he spoke rapidly at the end, with his head tilted to the side. His steely eyes fixed on John, like a predator, thought the former doctor.

"I just asked. I asked Jim what his name was. I figured, what the hell; why not? I guess it was a bit of a gamble," conceded John. His robe slid slightly off his shoulder. "I mean, of course it was a bit of a risk, what with his tendency to shoot people when he gets a little miffed…"

Sherlock pressed his lips together briefly, not wanting to shout at the blond and scare him off. Then he said, "A bit of a gamble? You could have been killed," said the detective, eyeing the doctor coldly to mask his distress at the very thought. "You gave up gambling for a reason, John Watson. You were not very good at it. Please refrain from such behavior in the future."

John drew himself up into his most imposing officer's stance, with his arms crossed over his chest. It was less effective than usual since he was seated and his hands were lost in the long silk sleeves.. Then there was that tantalizing bit of shoulder peeking out. Sherlock was quite taken with the view.

"Never mind the gambling," snapped Captain Watson, misinterpreting the stares that he was getting, "How did you find out Jim's name is Mor-i-arty?"

"I merely insisted that Hope reveal the name of his sponsor. So…I have finally discovered the man's full name," said the consulting detective softly. He steepled his fingers in front of his lips, deep in thought.

"Oh for God's sake," muttered John. "_You _discovered? You? Discovered it all by yourself then, did you?"

"Fine," snapped Sherlock. "With the able assistance of John Watson…"

"Why don't ya just say the boy wonder and leave it at that," barked John, "Ya could just say with the help of the bumbling but lovable boy wonder, YOU bravely pulled the information right out of the enemy's teeth!" John stood at attention, as befitted an officer of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Regrettably, his threatening fists were hidden in the long blue sleeves and his arousal was quite prominent, which marred the militant effect.

"Clearly, I've irritated you. Dull," said Sherlock, his voice ending in a great sigh. "I have conceded your assistance in the matter of Moriarty's name. I fail to see…"

"Oi! You two can bicker later; when I'm done," said Lestrade sharply, causing both the blond and the brunet to whip their heads around. Obviously, they had forgotten that the DI was still there.

"So, if this Moriarty didn't send you, Watson, then tell me, how did you just happen to find Mr. Hope and Sherlock, when we couldn't?"

Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes and collapsing dramatically onto the settee, "Really, Lestrade, what goes on in that little mind of yours? No John, let me handle this," he waved John back with one hand. "Detective Inspector, you have no proof of John's involvement, and that's because there isn't any proof. However, I will satisfy your curiosity, if only to make you leave us alone."

"Now, if you had paid attention, you would have noticed that my laptop, which,only hours ago, you and I used to locate Jennifer Wilson's phone, has been moved. Indeed, there are traces of moisture on the cover indicating that it was actually taken out into the rain," said the tall man speaking rapidly. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "You did not move it. And Mrs. Hudson is not a likely candidate, and surely she would not have taken it out into the rain. Obviously, it was John. He used my laptop to locate the phone and, thereby, me and the cabbie. He was more successful than you lot, I might add. There, child's play."

"It was fortuitous," continued Sherlock. "that Moriarty chose to rearm John this afternoon." John looked up, confused by the sudden truth. "No doubt it was intended as a bribe or, indeed, a love token," said the declaiming detective.

Both John and Lestrade looked askance. "Oh dear God, we were made aware of Moriarty's prurient interest in the good doctor at the very beginning of this case," said Sherlock in exasperation. "And it's obvious that John spent the afternoon with Moriarty. The clues are abundant. John has new bruises and bite marks, which were on clear display, thanks to the zeal of Sergeant Donovan. Oh stop blushing, John. It's very distracting," John's crimson face went incandescent.

"In addition," continued Sherlock, "there is a brand new, extremely expensive leather jacket and a new pair of shoes drying in the hallway. The clothing that Mrs. Hudson has laundered, would never have been selected by John, especially that regrettable lavender jumper. So, Moriarty felt the need to redress his ersatz boyfriend, indicating that he is not truly satisfied with John as he is. This, incidentally, shows that while Moriarty has shown the good taste to be attracted to John, he is still an idiot, because who in their right mind would want to change anything about John. He is quite perfect as is. Then there are the wine stains on that insufferably purple jumper. John is not a wine drinker; no, _he_ prefers ale. Besides, given his family history of alcoholism, John would not normally have taken several drinks so early in the day; therefore he was under considerable stress or perhaps even under considerable duress. And if that wasn't enough, John himself told us that he had asked Moriarty for his name. Which was a foolish gamble given Jim Moriarty's mental instability. It was inherently dangerous at the time, and it increases your danger long-term, John. It increases the likelihood that Moriarty will have to kill you in the end, since you will know too much about him. You must learn to think before you act, John Watson. On top of that, Moriarty will no doubt interpret your innocent question as flirting and so mistake your interest in him. Or _have_ you become interested in him, John."

Sherlock whipped his eyes to the side, pinning John under his white-hot glare.

John mutely shook his head, his lips parted in surprise as the deductions rolled over his head. He could barely follow them and then again, wasn't there a compliment buried in there somewhere? Something about John being perfect? He must be mistaken…

"John made yet another error," continued the deductive genius. "John entered the wrong school building. Now, admittedly, there were not _many _clues to go on. However, if he had bothered to observe carefully, John would have noticed that the recently trimmed grass was scattered on the walkway, which led to the building containing Mr. Hope and myself. And that grass had been disturbed as we entered. There was a clear trail, which, unsurprisingly, your forensics team also missed. So, predictably, I suppose, John entered the wrong building. In the end, he relied on serendipity to discover my location."

John gaped, "That's amazing. No really, that's brilliant." He stared in admiration at the genius.

Sherlock's lip almost twitched into a smile. "The rest, even you should be able to deduce, Lestrade. From the adjacent building, John saw me with Mr. Hope. He feared that I was about to take the pill…"

"You _were_ about to take the pill," the army captain corrected sharply. He pressed his lips together, regaining his stern officer's look, at least from his shoulders up.

"Nonsense, I was simply buying time, until you came," said Sherlock with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"No. Oh, no,' John replied instantly, "You had no idea that I was coming. You were about to take the damn pill."

"Why would I?" asked Sherlock, all innocence.

"Because you're an idiot," said John, his brows raised in triumph.

Sherlock's lips twitched into a grin.

"Where is the gun now," demanded Lestrade, before the two of them could get into it again, or God help him, get it on.

"He threw it in a skip, of course," said the consulting detective. With a swift glance to the side, he silently commanded the doctor's silence. "Certainly, John, would not be so foolish as to wander around London with a gun that was wanted in a homicide case," the word _obviously_, was in subtext.

John tried not to look chagrined, since he had, in fact, wandered foolishly around London with a hot handgun stuck in his waistband. Sherlock glanced at him again. There he goes, reading my mind again, thought John.

Sherlock stretched his long legs out in front of him and rested his head against the arms that were crossed behind his head. "Now, John would have been upset, in shock, after seriously injuring the cabbie. As a doctor he probably deduced that his shot_, which he fired, intending to wound_, had killed the cabbie. John is a fine marksman, but not perfect. And now, having accidentally killed the cabbie, he was in shock, which will have impaired his memory. And now, he won't be able to remember which skip it was." Sherlock faked a sad face, as he fed Lestrade disinformation after first telling him the truth. A simple but always effective way to misdirect the foolish, Sherlock thought smugly. His face resumed its cool mask of indifference. "Feel free to search all the skips between here and the college. If nothing else, it will give Anderson something useful to do. Perhaps you'll even locate the gun, which will be unregistered or stolen. Perhaps you'll locate other guns from other crimes. Of course, I am quite sure that John immediately thought to remove his fingerprints, so that even if you find the gun, it will not help you to pin anything on John Watson."

John's fingers twitched uncomfortably. How was it that Mrs. Hudson had thought to remove the fingerprints, and he hadn't? And anyway, he thought angrily, he hadn't missed his shot. He had fully intended to kill that murderous cabbie who dared to threaten the life of Sherlock Holmes.

"No Sherlock," said the proud soldier, "you're wrong. I didn't…"

"Shut up, John," snapped the consulting detective, suddenly looming over the shorter soldier. "You are still in shock. In fact, I wish you would sit down and cover yourself up, before you catch pneumonia. I shall have to get you more tea, just as soon as Lestrade is satisfied." He advanced further into John's personal space. John drew in a shaky breath, and backed up until he hit the settee, falling into it. His blue eyes remained locked on Sherlock's steel-grey eyes the entire time.

"Sherlock, you're making half of this up," said Lestrade, pulling his hand through his hair making it stick up. He didn't know what was worse, Sherlock playing him for a fool or having to sit in a room just oozing with sexual tension between the other two men. Christ, thought Greg Lestrade, that short, bad-tempered blond has got me all bothered too; ever since that scene in the loo…

Never mind that.

Technically, thought Lestrade, John Watson was guilty of murder. Not that the DI could prove it, even if he wanted to, which, to be honest, he didn't.

The cabbie had been terribly dangerous; at least four people were dead. And Jefferson Hope almost succeeded in making Sherlock homicide number five. Doctor Watson saved Sherlock's life; he alone managed to find and protect the younger man.

Hell, Watson saved them all a lot of work- building the case, collecting evidence, tacking down witnesses and fighting with soliciitors…and then, there was always that chance that the murderer could have gotten off. It had happened, more than once, to the Detective Inspector.

"Look, I can't have a vigil ante running about London," said Lestrade weakly. "No offense, but Watson's a loose cannon, a wolf in sheep's clothes…"

"Your mixed metaphors are inaccurate and tedious. To begin with, I did not 'make this up'; I deduced it, as always. Furthermore, there is no need to persecute John. He did the world a favor by removing a serial killer from the streets. He may have saved my life…

"I _did_ save your life," muttered John, sullenly. "You do both realize, I am sitting right here. I can talk for myself."

"Then tell Lestrade that you are done, and that he should leave." The consulting detective waved his hand, inviting the older detective to depart at once. "Good bye, Detective Inspector. Say hello to Mycroft for us."

That little reminder about Mycroft was intentional. Lestrade needed to remember that the British Government would never allow John Watson to be prosecuted over scum like Hope. Not for sentimental reasons, no, of course not, but Mycroft was after bigger game. He was after the man who had ordered his own assassination. Mycroft wanted the sponsor, Jim Moriarty. Besides, Sherlock's older brother would never allow the name of Holmes to be dragged into the courts.

And just as important, the DI needed to be reminded that he already had a partner, Mycroft, and therefore had no business looking at John like that.

"OK, it's late," said the detective inspector, who halted in front of the door. "And I do need to see Mycroft." I really, really need to see Mycroft, thought Lestrade. He had an itch that only Mycroft could scratch. "We will continue this discussion..."

Sherlock jumped up and began pushing the detective inspector out the door.

"I want to talk to both of you tomorrow…" Lestrade tried again.

"Yes, yes, of course Lestrade. Good bye." Sherlock called down the stairs, before he slammed the door shut. "Good riddance…God! I thought he'd never leave," said the tall man dropping backwards onto the settee again.

John pointedly shifted as far away as possible, without actually getting up, and stared angrily at the ceiling. Then he turned to face the consulting detective.

Sherlock's fragile confidence began to evaporate under John's heated glare.

The two men sat with pressed lips and traded glares, as they thoroughly and spectacularly misunderstood one other.

**A/N** Did everyone see the trailer for Season 3, with John Watson's mustache? I do not care for it, and I blame Mary. They both need to go (Mary and the Mustache, I mean, obviously not John). Still, I watched the trailer over and over, and now I'm ready for season 3, but IT'S ONLY AUGUST! I have to wait for MONTHS!

OK, rant over. Sorry everyone.

**Thank you** to everyone who is reading this fic despite the excessive author's notes. I shall try to stop wasting my time on A/N's and watching irritating trailers that get me all riled up. Instead, I shall try to write diligently and post once a week. A vain promise, no doubt, but I will try.

**Thank you** especially to everyone who encouraged me with your wonderful reviews (with apologies for my delay in responding to most of your fantastic reviews). **SO my sincere thanks go out to Sasodei-iz-awesome, Kyuugigurl74, EJ 12212012, SamuelE8688, Charles Lee Ray, power0girl, Formidable Rain, Quiet Time, InuChimera7410, Minnesota Fireball Wolf, Darkkira1, Wicked Winter, Anyrei1.**

I must admit, I didn't much care for Watson's suit either. I prefer his nice wooly jumpers. So that's three things. As in three things to lose. (I hope you're listening, Messrs Moffet and Gatiss-LOL) Lose the Mustache, the Suit and the inevitable Mary, who I just know is lurking in the shadows, looking lovely and winsome and AARGGHHH!

**Disclaimer**-You've probably all noticed that I don't have any claims or rights to SHERLOCK (which is no doubt for the best). Anyway, this is hardly a serious work of fiction, and so, won't be earning any money. It's just for fun, yeah?

Incidentally, Sherlock, was positively _endearing, _in the trailer, I mean. That _look_ on his face at the end of the trailer….Well, it was to die for. BTW, _his_ suit was just right, perfectly Sherlocky. And nicely fitted. Of course.

Oh, and I almost forgot. Mycroft, now Mycroft was positively dapper and so very attractive in his three-piece. I'm sure it was a three-piece. Really... I think I had better go check that trailer, one more time, just to be sure...Okay. Right. I'm an idiot. Of course Mycroft wore a three-piece suit. It's grey with a lovely blue tie. Very nice.

Now don't mistake me here. John is extremely handsome in his suit and tie. Very, very nice. It's just he always looked so comfy in his jumpers. And I think, if he had to wear a suit, then he deserved a blue shirt and blue tie to match his eyes.

Again, I blame Mary; really, I do. The least she could do is help him dress properly, you know, do his colors?

And did I mention that the mustache has to go? :D


	17. Chapter 17

**No Warnings, no worries except M for language**

_**At the end of Chapter 16…**_

"_Yes, yes, of course Lestrade. Good bye." Sherlock called down the stairs, before he slammed the door shut. "Good riddance…God! I thought he'd never leave," said the tall man dropping backwards onto the settee again._

_John pointedly shifted as far away as possible, without actually getting up and stared angrily at the ceiling. Then he turned to face the consulting detective. _

_Sherlock's fragile confidence began to evaporate under John's heated stare._

_The two men sat with pressed lips and traded glares, as they thoroughly and spectacularly misunderstood each other._

**Chapter 17**

Sherlock felt his doubts growing exponentially. Yesterday John had kissed him, and tonight John had shot a man for Sherlock.

And yet, John had been odd, angry and distant since Sherlock had returned to the flat. John had told Donovan, in no uncertain terms, that he wasn't gay. Apparently the soldier was rethinking his sexuality yet again. Sherlock huffed in annoyance; he hated repetition.

The consulting detective glared at the glowering blond who had his arms crossed over his chest. Sherlock felt his stomach clenching. He wasn't just annoyed. No, the truth was, Sherlock dreaded rejection. People always let him down in the end. Sooner or later, usually sooner, people always became disappointed or even disgusted with him. He was never good enough.

Yes, feelings were confusing and distracting and, in general, to be was one reason that he had given up on 'dating'. But the inevitable rejection was the main reason that Sherlock shunned relationships. That was the reason why he limited his sexual encounters to rare one-night stands and then, only when his transport became desperate. It wasn't sex that disturbed the World's Only Consulting Detective; it was trying to connect with other people, only to have them push him away like yesterday's rubbish.

He'd been so sure that John was different. Wrong. John, handsome and aloof, glared at him. Obviously, John had joined the ranks of people repelled by Sherlock Holmes.

"You told Sergeant Donovan that you are not gay and that you will not be living here," said Sherlock, ready to end this farce

"Well, yes…" began John, looking away.

That hurt. It was always the same, and it still hurt, even after all this time. As always, the consulting detective hid his hurt under a mask of cold disdain.

"As is typical for one of your boring, bourgeois upbringing, you are in held in thrall to an outdated socio-theocratic construct. Despite your years as a soldier or perhaps because of it," snarled Sherlock, "You are willing to subjugate your natural inclinations in subservience to the memory of your abusive father and an imaginary higher authority, which, if it existed, surely would not concern itself with the animalistic couplings of its creation. I had thought better of you Doctor Watson, but I am used to the disappointment engendered by the mundane mediocrity of the mendacious middle-class. If you are finished with it, I would like my dressing gown back. Mrs. Hudson will provide you with your own clothes so that you can return to your dull, commonplace, safely heterosexual existence."

John was angry. He had fallen hard for the younger man. Then that handsome, brilliant genius had been stupid enough to risk killing himself, and for what? To prove he was better or smarter than a psycho-cab driver? The former army doctor had felt sick all night. If John had arrived even a couple minutes later, Sherlock Holmes might have been choking to death from that poison. John swallowed with difficulty.

And after falling for Sherlock, after spending most of last night with Sherlock, after saving his bloody life, that man chose to mock John when he was starkers and held at gunpoint by Sergeant Quick-Draw Donovan.

But this took the cake. Sherlock accused John of...of something dreadful and shameful. Something about bourgeois couplings and mediocre heterosexuality. John was stunned and furious by this shocking, yet, incomprehensible attack.

John's jaw dropped in open dismay.

Well, John H. Watson didn't need fancy, public school rhetoric to fight back.

"You can just sod off!" retorted John eloquently.

"Oh well spoken, Doctor. Very articulate," sneered Sherlock, rolling himself into a ball and facing the back of the settee. "I do not know why I even bothered to orchestrate an alibi for the likes of you."

"I dunno either, since you ended up telling the detective inspector everything anyway," said John.

"Dear Lord, once the detective inspector was alone, it was safe to tell him most of the truth. After all, the man isn't as stupid as the other Yarders, he had already guessed the truth, which you would have noticed, if you used even a fraction of your miniscule brain. He has an unsolved homicide on his hands, and without an alibi, you were the prime suspect. Of course he would have been forced to bring you in for questioning. Once you had an alibi, he could let you go."

"That cabbie deserved to die; he was trying to kill you. And you were going to let him!" yelled John furiously, to hide his hurt.

Sherlock hunched into a smaller ball, the better to avoid the truth about that damned pill. "And when you take your leave, don't forget your handgun. Mrs. Hudson has it safely tucked away, since I knew you wouldn't have taken even the most rudimentary precautions..."

"Bloody hell, you know what? In combat they generally don't arrest you for shooting the bad guys!" barked Captain John Watson.

"Oh," said Sherlock, verbally pouncing with glee, "but you didn't always follow the rules, did you, John. Hence the reprimands."

"How the hell…you don't really know, do you? You're fishing. You don't have a clue what any of them were for, do you?" said Captain Watson, standing at parade rest, even though his opponent faced the back of the sofa. "I'll tell you this much, Mr. Genius, it wasn't for killing _innocent_ people. In fact one reprimand was for _not killing_ innocent people, in spite of my orders. So there, Mr. Bloody Know It All," John marched over to the door. "And I'll be sure to thank _Mrs. Hudson_ for helping me."

"She only helped you after I instructed her," said Sherlock petulantly to the cushions.

The blond soldier pivoted and marched back to confront the talking lump on the settee. The silk robe slid down his shoulder again. He impatiently pushed it back up.

"Yeah, about those instructions. Was it your idea to have me arrested while I was showering? What was that? Was that supposed to be funny?" demanded John furiously.

"Nooo," sighed Sherlock, turning around just in time to see the blue silk robe slither off John's shoulder again. It gave the detective goose bumps. "Obviously, the police were intended to discover you relaxed and at home in my flat, actually our flat, which would make it seem unlikely that you were out shooting cabbies."

Unable to resist flaunting his own cleverness, Sherlock continued, "I asked Mrs. Hudson to get your clothes washed removing any evidence that might potentially link you to the crime scene. Most importantly I instructed her to secure the gun. Then she was to have you wash up, again removing any evidence, especially the tell-tale gunpowder. I assumed that you would either wear my dressing gown or help yourself to some of my clothes. Lestrade would find you comfortably ensconced here, with Mrs. Hudson as a credible witness. The plan worked, for the most part. Lestrade can publicly accept your credible alibi, and you avoid further police entanglements."

"Well," asked the former soldier, "if ya knew I was going to be in the shower, why the hell, did ya bring Lestrade and Donovan here so soon?".

"Lestrade refused to stop at St. Bart's as I requested," said Sherlock, his voice tinged with mock sorrow. "I tried to lead the police up to the third floor bedroom to give you extra time. As usual, Sally Donovan was overly suspicious and clearly has a dirty mind. She went straight for the lavatory."

"So you didn't actually plan to have me publically humiliated in front of…"

"Good God!" yelled Sherlock, "No. NO and NO! Why would I try to humiliate you? And what in God's name did you have to be embarrassed about anyway?"

"I was starkers! And you thought I looked stupid! You made jokes about me…it..." John pursed his lips and tried to breathe through his nose. Then finally, with a high-pitched shout, he spat it out. "You made jokes about my cock!" Fuck, and didn't that sound mature. Fuck.

Oh.

Perhaps that explains the little blond's techiness, thought the consulting detective. Perhaps there was hope?

"John Watson you're an idiot," said Sherlock calmly, as he sat up like a jack-in-the-box. "I wasn't mocking you. My goal was to distract Lestrade and Donovan, who were both blatantly staring at you. How could you think that I thought you looked stupid? On the contrary, I thought you looked magnificent. Frankly, I wanted nothing more than to ravage you right there and then. And now I find out that you have chosen to deny your bisexuality, no doubt because you're ashamed of me."

John leaned forward. His tightly clenched fists hidden in the lengthy sleeves, which was just as well, thought John bitterly, since naturally, his left hand had been trembling for quite a while now.

"Look, I am not ashamed of you or myself," said John, his voice as tight as his fists. "I _never_ said that I was ashamed. So don't start giving me that mediocre middleclass hetero-wanna-be bourgeois bull crap again." Time to tell the truth. Time to be Bogart.

It was time for the breakup. John had rehearsed this all night."I can't live here and I can't date you and I can't be gay," said John. He was going to do this for Sherlock. He'd be strong, just like Bogart, in Casablanca. "If we keep seeing each other, you'll regret it. Maybe you won't regret it today, and maybe not tomorrow…

It was here, the rejection. Hopeless, Sherlock was numb, too numb to even listen at first. Every single person, even Sherlock's family, hates him, fears him, is disgusted with the freak, the sociopath…

"…and then that bloody madman Jim will come after you," continued John, "I can't take that chance Sherlock. I won't risk you getting hurt. That psycho-demon from hell, Moriarty, already threatened Sven…

I am a freak, thought Sherlock bleakly. Even John thinks so. Who cares about Moriarty? Everyone rejects me…Wait Moriarty? Jim Moriarty? John won't stay because of Moriarty?

"…no, really, you are the most amazing man, the most brilliant person I have ever me," said John. "I've never felt like this about any one. And I never will again. But this is what I have to do, what we have to do. And just remember, Sherlock, we'll always have Paris," said John, leaning in close. His dark eyes (the color of Prussian blue (Fe7(CN)18) looked deeply into Sherlock's eyes.

"What, John?" asked the consulting detective, running his hand vigorously through his hair, as though to stir up his brain. His brilliant mind began racing. Of course it was too dangerous for John to have another boyfriend right now. I should have thought of that myself; I'm an idiot! We'll just have to work around it. But Paris, how does Paris enter into it? "Paris, John, Paris?"

"Bloody hell," snapped John, standing up straight. He smacked his forehead with the palm of his hand. Fucking smooth, Watson! "I didn't mean Paris, I," John licked his lips and blushed brilliantly, "I meant The Savoy. Yeah, I meant, we'll always have The Savoy," said John, going for the hard-bitten, Bogey approach, despite his crimson face.

Sherlock had already formulated his solution. He looked at John through hooded, narrowed eyes, "John, you aren't making any sense."

"Well it makes sense when Bogey says it," protested John.

Sherlock cocked his head to the side to study the blushing blond in dishabille. From anyone else, this babbling about Paris and bogies would be irritating. From the blond soldier, who did not think Sherlock was a freak, it was endearing, especially in his blushing dishabille. John, who thought Sherlock was amazing, smiled but his eyes were sad; they gleamed with unshed tears.

John, who did _not_ want to reject Sherlock after all, had completed his heartfelt, albeit incomprehensible, goodbye. He was leaning down again. He intended to kiss Sherlock farewell, right in front of Mycroft's cameras. The very cameras that Moriarty hacked into. With horror, Sherlock realized that John would soon be as good as dead.

The manic detective pushed past John and waved his arm dramatically. "Very well Doctor Watson, since you insist, you may take the second bedroom upstairs."

Confused and with his brow deeply furrowed, John Watson opened his mouth to protest.

"Shut up, John!" said the crazy detective. "I'm too tired to argue with you any further. You insist on claiming half of this flatshare. Very well. We shall be flatmates." The confused blond tried again to speak and received a very painful kick in his shin. Now, his eyes narrowed.

"But remember this John Watson, I don't have friends," Sherlock paced the flat like a captive tornado, clearly displaying this argument with John for the cameras. He had to watch what he said, the microphones should have been removed, but there was no guarantee that they hadn't been replaced. And up until now, he had been very remiss in allowing open conversation.

"We shall be flatmates, I say," continued Sherlock, "and I will also accept your offer to work as my assistant, with a very generous salary, of course. But we shall never be friends. Sentiment is for the losing side. I shall not change my lifestyle for you. Now enough of this nonsense. Off you go."

John stood rooted to the spot, his mouth opened and then closed. He frowned at the madman in front of him, then gave his head a little shake to clear it.

"Go to bed, Doctor Watson!" ordered the genius. "Your scowls are putting me off. I believe that I shall play the violin."

"But…" John began, then, displaying the reflexes honed by years of military service, he skipped out of the demented detective's reach, avoiding another bruising kick from his new flatmate, who was evidently not his friend. "Look Sherlock I have no idea what you're on about now…"

"Of course you don't understand, you have the brain of a pigeon," exclaimed the tall, lunatic. "Bedroom. Upstairs. Now!"

John started; he almost obeyed the direct order. With clenched teeth, he forced himself to stand his ground. Of course, John thought, it would be awkward trying to leave at this hour of the night or more likely, the morning. His clothes were in Mrs. Hudson's flat, and he hated to wake her. Perhaps, he could follow Sherlock's _request _with his pride intact.

"I would like a drink of water," said Doctor Watson, mustering his dignity.

"NO! Upstairs!" ordered the handsome but unstable genius. His crazed, steely-blue eyes bored holes into John's brain. Oh God, he's probably a demon too, thought John.

John turned to make his escape down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat, but the sexy mind-reading devil, in a dark bespoke suit, cut him off. John turned tail and fled up the stairs to the small, rather bare, third floor bedroom. The soldier slammed the door behind him and searched in vain for a lock.

**A/N** Thank you for reading this fic. (Please let me know if I've gotten sloppy/confusing with the changing POV's. It looked okay to me, but then it all came out of my head in the first place so, I don't always see the problem.)

I am sorry for the persistent delays in responding to your reviews. I read and treasure each and everyone of them, but I have problems with the Internet on weekends and even sometimes on weekday evenings. Enough with the excuses! I promise to try harder to respond to your lovely comments, news, suggestions and questions.

Thank you to everyone who reviewed Chapter 16-Johnlocked86, Wicked Winter, SamuelE8688, Lady Laran, EJ 12212012, adrichan, JustCallMeMarly, Kyuubigurl74, Quiet Time, dana-san, DarkDAmson, anyrei1, AiLoveS, power0girl,InuChimera7410 and Nevyn(Chapters 2-13)

Oh yeah, I hope to update before the weekend with it's blasted Internet curfew!

Disclaimer I don't own anything Sherlock because if I did John Watson would not have any mustache at any time in season 3 (unless Sherlock got to shave it off. Heh, heh, heh!)


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

**Rated M** for… Oh, come on. You know, you really do know, don't you?

Okay, just in case... **Rated M** for inappropriate language and, I regret to say, smut (as in adults only please.)

_**Previously **(at the end of Chapter 17): "NO! Upstairs!" ordered the handsome but unstable genius. His crazed steely blue eyes bore holes into John's brain. Oh God, he's probably a demon too, thought John. _

_John turned to make his escape down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat, but the sexy mind-reading devil, in a dark bespoke suit. cut him off. John turned and fled up the stairs to the small, rather bare, third floor bedroom. The soldier slammed the door behind him and searched in vain for a lock. _

**Chapter 18**

John thought about pushing the bed or the dresser in front of the door to block it, but really, that was a bit too romance novel-ish. And John was not a vapor-ish, Victorian virgin. No, he was Three Continents John Watson. He was a soldier, well, a former soldier.

Come to think of it, he wasn't actually certain that he even wanted to block the door. Well, that can't be right, of course John would want to block the door, to keep out the tall, dark madman. Right?

The former soldier sat heavily on the bed, trying to figure out why he just let a skinny little git chase him up the stairs. Bit embarrassing, that.

Of course, Sherlock did have six inches on him. And the devil seemed pretty damned muscular and strong last night. But still, John Watson was the soldier; he could certainly take Sherlock, if he wanted to. But, being an officer and gentleman, John simply didn't want to hurt the lanky git.

Anyway, John was might be a bit off his game, due to all the stress from the past week. And it had been a very stressful week, what with psychopaths who conscripted him into a life of crime and forced dating and all the kidnappings and then tonight's little adventures which were the icing on the cake.

And lets not forget that John fell in love this week. Yes, John was in love, finally, after all these years. And Cupid was clearly a twisted, cruel, little bastard with a sick sense of humor. Because psycho-Cupid had made John fall in love with a brilliant, erratic, devastatingly handsome madman who was now torturing a violin.

And check that out everyone, John is in love with another bloke. Hell, a week ago, John hadn't even known that he was gay. Or bi. Or whatever!

It was a bit hard to think with that horrid screeching going on downstairs.

Right, enough with the self-pity, it was time to move on. It was time to plan John Watson's Great Escape.

John pursed his lips and slowly made his way to the door. Maybe the coast was clear. Sherlock seemed to be busy, destroying an innocent musical instrument. John should be able to simply sneak down the stairs, get his clothes (leaving the lavender jumper behind), and then make his escape. Easy, assuming Mrs. Hudson hadn't locked her door.

The former soldier stuck his head out the door. The agonized screams coming from the violin were truly awful, but at least the madman was occupied…So once he has his clothes, figured the soldier, (and, if he was lucky, maybe his money and phone too). Well then, John would somehow get to Harry. They'd make a run for it together.

Wearing only Sherlock's blue silk dressing gown, John moved silently, slowly, stepping down on to the first step.

"Go to bed, John!" boomed a deep baritone voice.

The violin cried out again in pain. The sound was horrific, worse than nails on a chalkboard. God, it was like some new form of torture. John had bolted back to the bedroom and now leaned back against the door. He studied the bed. It was made up with soft clean sheets and not one, but two, fluffy pillows and two duvets.

The room might be plain, but the bed was really very comfortable. Soft, but not too soft. Much nicer than that cot in his bed-sit.

If only that infernal screeching would come to an end.

So, John could play along for tonight. Why not? In the morning, he would either be set free, or he would escape though the window. Or he'd mount a frontal attack, mow the lunatic down, acquire his clothes (except the lavender monstrosity) and then escape out the front door. _Then _he'd get Harry, and _then_ they'd make their Great Escape together. Hopefully, Harry wouldn't be too hung over to make a quick getaway.

John drew the silk robe shut tightly and climbed into bed. He was still thirsty. Well, that was too bad, wasn't it? He wasn't going back out there with that crazy Sherlock Holmes. The mad detective would probably hit John with that damned violin.

The violin screeching came to an abrupt halt. Before John could breathe a sigh of relief, a tempestuous virtuoso performance began.

John was enthralled. Amazing. Sherlock was an amazing violinist. He was bloody brilliant. Maybe the earlier screeching was really some new fangled way to tune a violin and not some devious ploy which violated the Geneva Convention.

John sighed, he had left the light on, and now he had to get out of bed just when his feet were finally getting warm.

John shut off the light. He checked the window, peeking around the lowered shade, to study the street. A figure lurked in a shadowy doorway across the street. Great, probably one of Moriarty's goons. Maybe it was just a common hoodlum, but John kept an eye on him.

John watched for what seemed like hours but was probably only a few minutes. The suspicious character finally pulled up his jacket's hood and ambled on down the road. So just a common hoodlum then... maybe.

John should probably be concerned about his paranoia. Except there really were people out to get him.

John returned to the now inviting bed. He was chilled from standing at the window in nothing but a thin silk robe. The music from downstairs had changed again. Now it was hauntingly beautiful. It was heartbreaking. John did not feel like sleeping. Still, he tried to get comfortable. He cradled his head into his right arm, which was raised behind his head. He listened as the violin poured aching melodies of loss and despair. Perhaps John was still feeling a little self-pity after all.

John struck a desolate pose, with his left arm flung over his eyes and mourned the loss of his one true love. It was just like in Wuthering Heights. John was Heathcliff, destined to lose his mind over his unrequited love for Cathy. And this time, Sherlock could be the girl, a small smile formed briefly, as John imagined a sad, repentant Sherlock pining away for John.

The bed was too comfortable, that was why he couldn't sleep, thought John. That and the beautiful but poignant music that still filled the flat. John wondered how Mrs. Hudson ever got any sleep at night, what with that violin going at all hours of the night.

In between maudlin thoughts about his tragic romance, John devised five ways to escape from 221b Baker Street. Three of the ways allowed him to leave with clothes. One way allowed him to leave fully clothed after having popped the sexy git right in his stuck up nose. He devised three ways to disable an intruder based on the materials at hand, only one of which was likely to prove fatal. He devised two ways to kill himself to preserve his honor. Oddly, he wasn't entirely convinced that he would choose to defend his honor, although it seemed very unlikely that his honor would need defending, mores' the pity.

John sighed. Why couldn't he have fallen in love with someone nice like Janet or Chloë or even poor Mary? He had really, really liked Mary; they had so much in common. Why didn't he and Mary just run off together and get married? Then Mary would still be alive, and John would probably have grown to love her even more than he loved that Sherlock.

You know, it probably isn't even love, thought John, fluffing up his pillows and squirming around to get comfortable. I mean; I just met the man. It probably isn't love; it's just a crush. It's just lust. It's just a passing fancy. The man is just handsome and bit interesting.

John sighed. He definitely couldn't sleep, even with the lovely, soft sheets. Plus he was annoyed by all the sighing.

Okay, he was smitten, truly smitten with that lunatic. But he could get over it. He and Harry could run off to the Virgin Islands. That would be exotic and exciting. Yeah, living on the beach with his drunken sister. FUN. But maybe he could fall in love with a nice quiet girl. Someone kind and quiet and reliable…and dull.

NO STOP THAT! Maybe I can meet a nice, _interesting _girl…or a guy? Why not? A tall, dark, handsome man with a hard, muscled chest and broad shoulders and long clever hands that knew just how to touch John and strong masculine arms and glacial-blue eyes and a voice like thunder…ARGH!

Stop it, you fool!

John writhed like an eel in the horrid uncomfortable bed and kicked his covers off. It was definitely much too hot.

Okay, think about escape. Think about self-defense. You know, this duvet could become a weapon in the right hands…

Wait. It was quiet, too quiet. Other than a passing lorry, the flat echoed with the eerie silence.

Oh, the music had stopped. No wonder it was quiet. Well. Well then. Sherlock must have gone to bed, while John tried to think of a way to commit homicide with a duvet.

Well, even crazy geniuses have to sleep sometime. It was fine. It was better than fine; it was great. John was not disappointed, because, while he was smitten, he was not in love, and he didn't need to see Sherlock again.

In fact, John was glad. He was relieved that the posh, psychotic git was going to leave him alone.

Maybe, after he waited a while, he should try escape plan #3. He might have to hit the street wearing nothing but a silk robe, but it could be worse. And he could always take one of the duvets to keep him warm and possibly for use in combat.

Anyway, it was perfectly cleat that his dubious honor was not to be compromised tonight. Well, of course not, Sherlock Holmes could do a hell of a lot better than an old, disabled veteran…

His door cracked open, silently. John stopped breathing. A tall, dark shadow crept in quietly.

Oh. Oh my God. Maybe Sherlock Holmes _is_ a psychopathic murderer, like that wretched police person said. Or, maybe he's not a murderer; maybe he's come to take advantage of me. John's nether regions instantly began to show some slight interest in the latter possibility.

John licked his lips. "Sherlock?"

"John," a deep, voice rumbled. "John, I brought you some water," said Sherlock, prosaically. He sat at the foot of the bed. "It is safe to put down your garrote now, John."

John pressed his lips together yet again and loosened his tight grip on the robe's belt. (Self-defense plan #1).

"It's not a garrote, it's just a belt," muttered John. Even in the dark, he could see the detective's eyes roll. He sat up and reached for the water. "Thanks," he whispered. Maybe this was some new kind of dom/sub thing. Well John didn't much care for that. Most of the time.

"You don't have to whisper, John," said the World's Only Consulting Detective. "I checked with my fat brother. There are no cameras in this room and, supposedly, no microphones anywhere in the flat. Of, course Mycroft's cameras remain in the sitting room and the kitchen."

"What about the lavatory?" demanded John.

"You have nothing to worry about there, John," reassured Sherlock. "Even if there was a camera in the lavatory, you look amazing after a shower."

"Bloody buggery fucking hell!" shouted John. "Are there or are there not cameras in the lavatory?"

"John I already explained all that…"

"Yes?" John's faced twisted, as if he was in actual pain, "Or, No?"

"No," said Sherlock, taken aback by the blond's vehemence.

"Fine," said John breathing heavily, but his head relaxed back against the headboard with a thump. "Good. That's good. And none in the bedrooms?"

"No."

"But there are cameras in the sitting room and kitchen?"

"Yes."

"Microphones?"

"No," said Sherlock absently. He was distracted by the play of light on his flatmate's panting chest. He looked up to see a very disgruntled flatmate. John's dark eyes glared under that expressive brow as he finished his water. "You have questions," said Sherlock.

"Too bloody right," muttered John, setting his cup aside.

Sherlock sat impassively, his face a mask as usual.

"Well, would you mind telling me what the hell is going on?" demanded John, pulling the slippery robe shut, again.

"You'll need to be more specific, John."

"For Chrissake! I mean all that 'we'll just be flatmates' and 'I'm supposed to not be gay' and then chasing me up to this bedroom and then the violin…

"Certainly, John, but first I need to clarify something," said the tall man. John huffed in exasperation. "Do you or do you not plan on sharing your bed with me tonight?"

John tried to bite back his excited little gasp. "I told you that it's too dangerous, Sherlock!" said John, his voice pitched high. "You could get…"

"John," said the detective with exaggerated patience. "Try to focus your tiny, little mind on the question. I shall rephrase it. Do you want to have sex with me? Tonight. Now."

"But Jim…" sputtered the soldier.

"But Jim!" mimicked the detective. "Honestly, John, you really haven't been paying attention."

Six foot of consulting detective suddenly climbed into John's lap. "First, and I will not repeat this again. There are no camera's or bugs in this room; what occurs in here will remain private. So Jim will never know."

"Second," said Sherlock, leaning down to brush John's stubbled cheek with his hand. "That farce downstairs was to support your earlier, public assertion that we are not a couple. Anyone watching should believe that we are flatmates and not lovers. Watchers will be convinced that you are alone in your bed, and I am alone in my bed. And that is how we shall proceed. The world will think that you are my assistant, colleague and flatmate. You will continue to assert to all and sundry that you are not gay, and we are not a couple. I will pretend indifference to you at all times. Jim will know nothing of our true relationship. This is only temporary, John; I will deal with Moriarty for you soon. In the meantime, when I can safely avoid the cameras in the dark, we will meet in this bed for as much sex as you can imagine."

Sherlock's face was only inches away from John. "I don't know, Sherlock. Like Han Solo, I can imagine quite a lot," said the blond soldier tipping his head to the side with a challenging little smile.

"I assume that is yet another one of your pointless references to popular culture," said Sherlock brushing his lips across John's forehead and wriggling in John's lap.

John moaned at the friction over his growing arousal. "If we become flatmates, you might have to watch some of those cultural references with me," said the shorter man somewhat breathlessly.

"How dull," said Sherlock, who had moved across John's jaw to kiss and nibble at his ear. "But if that is the social paradigm that I must follow as a flatmate, I shall attempt to comply." The detective's rich timber reverberated in John's ear, and his hot breath sent chills down John's spine.

"Yeah, okay," said John, who was a bit too distracted to keep up the witty repartee. The shorter man tilted his face up to kiss an unshaven chin. That was a very masculine chin and dear God, what a turn on. John flung his arms around Sherlock's long neck, pulling him in for a proper snog.

Lips pressed against lips with punishing force. Kissing Sherlock was quite unlike kissing any of the women John had ever been with. It was rougher and more demanding. But it also just felt so damned right.

The detective negligently brushed a hand over John's shoulder, and the robe slithered down the ex-army doctor's muscular arms, exposing even most of John Watson for Sherlock's delectation.

John reflexively tried to pull the robe up to cover the scar, but Sherlock would have none of that.

"Leave it be, John. I want to look at you. All of you," the pale face tilted in the dark as large hands caressed the soldier. "It only makes you more handsome, more manly," said the deep, husky baritone. "Will it hurt if I touch it?"

"Um, No...Actually yeah, it might hurt a bit unless…um...ah..."

"Unless I'm gentle?" asked Sherlock with a touch of asperity. "Christ, John, you can ask me to be gentle or careful, alright?"

"Um, right," agreed John. "It's just that I'm not used to being with, um, a man."

"Oh for the love of…"

"Well I don't know the proper etiquette of all this, okay?" snapped John defensively.

"John, I assure you I never concern myself with etiquette," Sherlock grinned like a schoolboy before dipping his head and attacking first John's neck and then his good shoulder with kisses, and not so gentle bites. Then he delivered a few, very gentle kisses to the war wound. He briefly stopped to grimace at the site of Jim's bite before traveling down to lave one of John's nipples with his clever, tricky tongue.

John drew his breath in sharply. No one had ever paid much attention to his chest before. He didn't realize until now that he liked that attention. He moaned and arched his back. And Sherlock drew the tingling, burning little nubbin into his mouth again and again, and then he did the same to the other side. John writhed with pleasure.

His little soldier was much more responsive than he had dared to hope. It seemed that every inch of John responded to Sherlock's touch. The detective's groin ached at the thought of how John might respond when Sherlock moved his mouth south.

The detective very nearly succeeded in turning John's mind to mush just from kissing him. However, John had maintained enough control to slowly unbutton and then remove Sherlock's shirt. The light creeping in around the shade dimly lit up the sculpted planes of the detective's neck, shoulders and chest. It was unbelievably erotic to feel muscle rippling under his lips and to hear the masculine rumble of the genius's voice. Planting kisses on Sherlock's neck, John moaned into it as he felt the muscles tense and relax under his fingertips.

John tried kissing Sherlock's nipples but was surprised when the younger man pulled away. Okay, Sherlock didn't like that, now what?

John slid his warm, dry, calloused hands over pale flesh from shoulders to hips. He was rewarded with a deep, growling groan that burrowed deep into John. He gently bit the flesh between the taller man's neck and shoulder. Sherlock began grinding and thrusting his hips into the soldier's lap.

Right, thought John, that's better then.

Sherlock could not withstand much more of this. When John raised his head to breathe, Sherlock rocked backwards, stepping off the bed. He quickly removed his sleep trousers, releasing himself. He then tore the silk robe and sheets away from John.

John was at least as magnificent lying naked in bed, as he had been standing in mock surrender earlier. (Sherlock knew that the soldier could have taken Donovan at anytime. Despite John's charming embarrassment, the soldier had been very confident and unafraid, even while facing the barrel of a gun. Sherlock groaned at the memory and again at the sight of his very aroused lover who squirmed enticingly.

John froze when Sherlock stood in front of him nude and unabashed, like some kind of young Apollo. His erection preceded him. Oh fuck. Look at the size of that thing. This was it. This was the turning point. He was going to have gay sex with a sculpted Greek god who sported a massive dick. Well, fuck.

John swallowed hard and tried to tamp down his suddenly intense case of nerves. The young god gracefully climbed back up and straddled the prone ex-soldier. John trailed his hands from Sherlock's wrists and up his firm forearms. The fine hair on Sherlock's arms tickled the skin under John's arm. Heat built inside, as he slowly drew his arms up and down Sherlock's arms, his skin sliding over Sherlock's sensually, flowing like the silk of the dressing gown.

The detective's eyes glittered in the dark, his dark hair spilled across his fore head. And for the first time in at least sixteen years, John was uncertain what the hell to do next in bed. Should he grab Sherlock's member, grab his own, grab them both and rub them together like a nomad starting a fire?

That mental picture caused a high-pitched giggle to erupt from John's lips. He raised a trembling hand to cover his mouth as embarrassing sniggers struggled to escape his lips. Oh dear God in heaven. I'm blowing it, blowing it…wait, how about a blowjob? Maybe I should I give him a blowjob? John struggled to sit up.

The consulting detective sat back, unsure if he should take offense at John's bizarre giggling. This was alarmingly reminiscent of Victor's contemptuous laughter during their ill-fated affair. However, none of Sherlock's subsequent one-night stands had ever laughed at him. Indeed they were always overwhelmed with his prowess, he thought smugly.

The little blond was struggling to sit up. John's laughter had gone just as fast as it appeared. John's mouth set in a line of grim determination, and his brows lowered stubbornly. Sherlock prepared himself for the worst, as he noted former soldier's trembling left hand.

The John is agitated or, more likely, fearful. Oh God, I moved too fast. Now he's probably repulsed. I am an impatient fool, thought the genius.

How the fuck can I give Sherlock a blowjob if he's in my lap, wondered John? Well, I can't obviously; John was beginning to panic. Dear God, this was as bad as his first time with…with…Oh, God I can't remember her name, thought John frantically. And John's first time with what's her name had been clumsy and awkward as fuck, but at least the two of them had both been young and inexperinced together. And now John was here, with this posh, urbane genius, and John fucking it up, big time.

Stop it, John Watson. You are a grown man, a soldier; just grab his dick. Oh God don't, he might think I'm being too pushy. I know; I know…I'll buy time, thought Joh. I'll just put my hand on his goddam hip. Yeah! That's the ticket!

John's face was intent as he slapped his hand over Sherlock's hip, just as the tall man prepared to run off to his room. He looked at John's hand (His right hand was fixed to Sherlock's hip, John's left is tucked under his arm, in order to hide the trembling, which indicates emotional stress. John's face looks rather like a man about to be executed.)

"You are having second thoughts again and want me to leave," deduced the consulting detective with an icy cold sneer. No one need ever know of this rejection, thought Sherlock; I can just...

Shite and bloody hell, thought John.

"Bloody hell," squeaked John. He cleared his throat quickly. "I mean bloody hell," he said in a falsely lowered voice. "Shite, I know I sound like an idiot but I never had second thoughts the first time and I'm not having second thoughts for a first or second time either. Look, could you maybe…You know…"

"John you are blithering. And you look like a deer caught in the headlights, " said Sherlock scathingly.

"Well…a little help?" suggested John, licking his lips nervously. "Um, so, what would _you_ like, sexy?" he asked, trying to be suave and seductive, although his voice was as haggard as his face.

Hell, that stupid magazine in his therapist's office said you should ask your lover what she...he...wants, right? Right? Fuck this; John had never had to ask before though. No doubt about it, Sherlock would think John was an idiot.

Help? Why the devil does he want help? Oh. OH! "Idiot!" said Sherlock, confirming John's worst fears.

"John, are you nervous?" asked Sherlock cautiously.

"Me?" John squeaked once more, to his everlasting mortification. He began shaking his head. "No, no. I was just requesting some clarification or, um…" John ran out of stream, completely transfixed by those eyes gleaming demoniacally in that angelic face. He tightened his hold on the detective's thin hip, trying to hold the man in place until John's brain re-booted.

Sherlock's gaze softened. His lips parted and he leaned toward the wary soldier. "John, you are nervous. You giggle when you're nervous."

Deny everything, decided the proud soldier. "I don't giggle, ever, and I'm not nervous." John turned his eyes aside as he blatantly lied.

"So," said Sherlock briskly. Now that he had sufficient data to evaluate his soldier's behavior. John was _nothing_ like Victor. The brave soldier was simply insecure and nervous. _Trust issues_, the consulting detective reminded himself. Sherlock was once again in control. "You are a very flighty little fellow, John. It's surprising that you make such a good sniper."

"I'm not flighty," said John affronted. "And, when I shoot, I tune everything out, but that wouldn't be very, umm, well it's not very romantic." He felt the heat rising in his face and was grateful for the dark. "Also, I am not little."

"I must confess, John," continued Sherlock ignoring John's protests, "that I forgot that you are somewhat virginal in this arena…"

"AND I'm not a virgin!" John announced loudly, his voice once again creeping into the higher registers.

His flighty soldier was becoming flightier. His little soldier required distraction and a firm, but subtle, hand.

"Kiss me, John," ordered Sherlock decisively. He leaned down keeping his eyes locked on the John's wide eyes.

John knew a direct order when he heard one. John also recognized a second chance when it stared him right in the face.

He raised his right hand to cup Sherlock's cheek, appreciating the rough, manly stubble. He tilted his head up and began kissing those soft lips again. Sherlock seemed satisfied to let John take the lead.

John was quickly lost in the sensations of lips sliding against lips, lips mashing into teeth, the biting and sucking. He tasted Sherlock again; already that combination of tea and cigarette was familiar and heady.

The blond pulled the six-foot lapful closer and they toppled down onto the bed. John assaulted that gorgeous long, white neck with bites and kisses.

John was truly focused on his snogging but he was still aware of the long, cool hand stroking his inner thigh. John tensed. The touch was soft and teasing. John relaxed and kept kissing and tasting Sherlock's neck, his shoulder, and moving to the sensitive skin above his clavicle.

Sherlock's wandering hand massaged John's thighs, sometimes teasingly, sometimes firmly.

Ohhh, maybe John should just try that on Sherlock?

The consulting detective felt the lightest, most tentative touch on his thigh. Oh, the little blond was finally catching on, good...excellent. Sherlock bent his leg and scooted up so that John's shorter arm could reach. Sherlock also felt John's hard-on beneath his own. The detective began to rock his hips slowly, rubbing himself against his soldier. John groaned and buried his face in Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock moved his hand up to cup John's balls and received a deeper, more urgent groan. This one spiked the detective's arousal and he began frotting in earnest.

John had moved his hand, which no longer trembled, thank you very much, to cup Sherlock's balls. Touching lightly, rolling them and then tugging gently, extracting a deep, rumbling moan from the detective.

This was really something! John Watson was a doctor. He was passing familiar with the examination and treatment of men's genitalia, but he'd never been turned on by them. Well, of course not, you idiot, thought the army doctor, you've never had a male lover before.

John had a handful of heavy balls resting in his hand, and bloody hell, that was hot. He looked up to see Sherlock propped on one elbow staring at him, head cocked to the side in what John secretly called Sherlock's 'Genius at Work' pose. The lovely friction over his groin had stopped too.

Oh fuck, I've overstepped some line, because I don't know the damned etiquette, though John.

"What?" asked John defensively, still holding Sherlock's jewels reverently in his hand.

"Is everything alright, John?" asked Sherlock. "You suddenly stopped moving or even breathing? I thought…"

"Sorry, I just…" John was unsure of the protocol. Should he just drop the precious jewels? That seemed rather rude. "I mean that, no… I should say…" John's index finger slid over a roundish ball, skimming across the lightly haired sac, which really, really turned him on. It was hot, really fucking hot.

"It's just really fucking hot!" admitted John honestly. "I mean, your balls! I…they…I never felt anyone…that way. I mean, I am a doctor but, um, well it's hot."

"You're adorable," said Sherlock smirking in the dark.

"Excuse me?" questioned John stiffly.

"You heard me, I will not repeat myself all night," said Sherlock arrogantly.

"Well, Christ, Sherlock! It's just that you have balls," explained John. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Oh my God, I am so fucking stupid!

"Well, yes John, I do. So do you, in fact," added Sherlock, his teeth glowing inside his broad grin.

John wanted to drop those balls now like a couple of hot potatoes, but he didn't want to seem ill-mannered. "Fine. Fine," Oh good, now my voice is squeaking again. "Fine. Christ, Sherlock! It's just that…It's hot, okay? You're hot! AND you're a man. And I've never felt this…these, you. Oh, bloody hell!" Now he knows I'm an idiot, a stupid idiot, thought John.

"I take it back, John. I shall repeat myself. You are adorable," said Sherlock, his voice low and raspy. He kissed his adorable lover. You are terribly, addictively adorable when you get all flustered, thought Sherlock, sucking on John's neck.

John was preparing his intelligent rebuttal to the accusation of being adorable, when a large hand caressed his balls again, distracting him. John returned his attention to the weighty jewels, which he still held in his hand.

The detective was nuzzling his neck and shoulder and his now slick hand traversed north, to the base of John's arousal. When had Sherlock acquired the lube? Oh God, that man was bloody brilliant. Oh God, that hand was teasing him, barely touching him. John's hips began to rock on their own.

The soldier gently released the captive jewels, after a last tug and a caress. Following the detective's example, John's hand trailed through the thick mat of curly hair to the base of a still impressive erection, despite that earlier distracting conversation.

Sherlock's lube filled palm, caressed John's hand, filling it with the lubricant. Brilliant. Amazing!

John's slick fingertips explored Sherlock's hot shaft, and it twitched with a life of its own. John encircled the member and slowly stroked its very impressive length. It was alive and on fire and so thick and heavy and different from John's and yet so similar. John's hand began to caress it, as if it was his own…but it wasn't and that was bloody hot, too hot because someone else was stroking him off.

John gasped and made a keening sound in the back of his throat, and he didn't bloody well care who heard it.

John keened again, his free hand clamping down on Sherlock's shoulder. The feel of Sherlock in his hand was like…like a gun, heavy and dangerous and ready to go off.

John threw his head back into the pillow that was already pushed halfway off the bed. John's eyes clamped tightly shut. He was groaning, "Oh…Gawd! Oh, no, no…Ohhahhh…Gawd."

Sherlock had rarely felt this turned on with any of his partners. He slipped his hand around both of them, stroking firmly, his fingers touching John's hand. John felt so hot and so hard, as he thrust up against his erection and into their hands.

Fuck, even though John was new to man on man and even though the detective had to demonstrate the steps, Sherlock had _never_ felt this turned on. He was going to come before John. He couldn't help himself, because John was bucking wildly and groaning _his _name, his fucking name…

"Oh God…Shhher-lock, Sherl…God, oh, ohhh, God….Shherl."

Sherlock felt the burning in his center, his blood was pounding and he let out a massive moan into John's chest. He thrust into their hands, sliding against John's length, releasing into their shared clasp, after several thrusts; his weight collapsed onto his lover.

John was overwhelmed. Muscular legs clamped his hips in place, and that huge hand was jerking both of them off, his puny little hand just enjoyed the ride, luxuriating in the slide over burning flesh.

He shuddered when that obscene moan reverberated into his very bones, somehow he got even harder. He was so hard, it hurt, and a man was coming all over John. Sherlock was making the dirtiest, most wonderful sounds and Sherlock's surprisingly heavy body was smearing his cum all over John.

Now oversensitive, Sherlock slipped out of their joined hands. Taking a deep breath, he pulled himself together. He tightened his hold on the bucking doctor and stroked faster. John gripped the bed sheets desperately.

His adorable lover squeaked again, "God" "Ohhh" "ohhh…god…sherrrrllock" John was lifting himself and Sherlock up off the bed in his frantic thrashing, and he was cuming. He was cumming for Sherlock, into his hand. Sherlock gradually slowed his hand, breathing into John's ear as he whispered unforgivably ridiculous sentiments that seemed to calm and please the former soldier.

The blond pressed his ear against Sherlock's soft, warm mouth. John's breath hitched, once, twice like a hiccup. He stilled, not even breathing, his body reveling in the glow of ecstasy.

Finally, John whispered, "Sherrrlll," like a prayer.

"Shhh," whispered the lips, blowing gently into his ear.

Strong arms wrapped around Sherlock, pulling him against John's muscular chest.

"Sherlock, sherlock, sherl, sherl…" murmured John.

Sherlock tried to rise to clean up and return to his bedroom like always, but John tightened his grip. Sherlock was wet and sticky and should be disgusted, but Sherlock was, in fact, comfortable and quite content resting on John's chest. He settled his weight, next to John's right side but kept his head on his soldier's chest.

John kissed those slightly sweaty, black curls, brushing them off Sherlock's pale forehead. He muttered vague and nearly incoherent praises.

Sherlock greedily soaked up John's frank adoration. He stayed wrapped around his new lover, watching him breathe and snuffle and sleep for a couple of hours. Just when the night began to first fade into purple morning, Sherlock untangled himself from his warm refuge and snuck back to his cold, lonely bed to dream about a small, blond, fiercely adorable soldier.

**A/N** Sorry for the long delay, I simply have too much going on and no time to do it. (Like you never heard that one, right?). I wish I had one of those time changing thingy-bobs like Hermione Granger had in The Prisoner of Azkaban. Damn! That would be truly useful.

Oh well, **thank you** to everyone who has stuck with me so far, in spite of the delays. I promise to keep updating although it might be every other week…. (I was very silly to think that I could do two fics at once-NEVER AGAIN. I definitely don't have the time to do justice to two at the same time; so it's one week for one, and then the next the other, and then I get so confused-like the time I posted the wrong chapter in the wrong fic JEESH!).

**Special thanks** to everyone who has listed this fic in as one of their favorites. You are all very sweet.

More **extra-special thanks** to everyone who has reviewed this fic. My thanks go out to everyone who reviewed Chapter 17, including dana-san, Wicked Winter, InuChimera7410, SamuelE8688. EJ12212012, Quiet time, TheSherlockianGodess (and why didn't I think of that name first!), foxeeflame, power0girl, anyrei1, Kyuubigurl. Consulting smartass (another name I should have thought of!), guest (always a favorite, lol), Ray and OnceInaBlueMoon (hopefully I will update more often than that LOL). THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR YOUR REVIEWS!

BTW **SamuelE8688** has given me an incredible honor by translating my first ficlet, He's a Pirate, into **German**. I myself cannot read German, but it is so cool to try to read my story in another language. Sam is one of those amazing people who can read and write in more than one language (there are quite a few of you out there and I am always impressed with your bilingual abilities-and a touch jealous too :D). I am truly humbled and thankful for all the work that she is putting into the translation. SOOO….if you are also one of those brilliant people who are bilingual or multilingual, stop and visit her translation under her own name SamuelE8688 at fanfic. Thank you, Sam :D

**Disclaimer** I do not own the rights to Sherlock but I'd be willing to take them if the BBC is tired of them. Just a suggestion. **:D**


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N** This is a short bit of Mystrade fluff with a chaser of Sally Donovan tartness to cut down on the sickly sweetness. It has little or no bearing on the plot, but I wrote it because I wanted to. I cannot in good conscience blame John for this flight of fancy, but I might be able to blame Greg. He _was_ feeling a bit horny after that scene with John in the loo. So that might be a good enough reason for this chapter.

So, yeah, enough pointless rambling.

**Warnings-rated M **for M/M smut…Also, the sugar content may be bad for your teeth and possibly for your diet as well. You have been warned.

**Chapter 19**

Greg Lestrade pinched his forehead and messaged his temples, ignoring Donovan's tirade. What a night, Christ it was almost morning. Of course, it could have been worse, thought the detective inspector. Hell, it very nearly was worse. Sherlock nearly got himself killed while solving this case. And while the case was solved, the serial murderer (a cabbie, no less) was shot dead, and Lestrade had no _official_ suspects. The paperwork alone would take all next day. And he did not look forward to explaining any of this to his superintendent and, God forbid, press corp who would use this case to highlight the Yard's incompetence and somehow turn it into a case of police brutality.

He should be grateful that Sherlock was even still alive, and that was thanks to that army doctor. Greg wondered what he ad Sherlock were getting up to now. Then he decided he really didn't want to know.

"I've warned you. I've warned you a thousand times." Sergeant Donovan continued her harangue. "Sherlock Holmes is a danger to the public. And yet you left that poor little man alone with him…"

"Poor little man?" repeated Greg incredulously. "Poor little man? I thought he was supposed to be the dangerous one! You said that Watson was the shooter. You insisted that he killed the cabbie. You held John Watson at gunpoint because _he_ was so _dangerous_!"

"Yeah, well, he's got an alibi now, And now that I've had time to think about it, even if Watson did shoot that Hope guy; he did us all a favor," said the sergeant decisively, brushing curly, dark hair off her forehead. "My point is, Watson's a wounded vet with PTSD and we abandoned him to the likes of that psychopath, Holmes. You know how he manipulates and takes advantage of people. It ain't right, and you know it!"

"Oh for God's sake, Sally. I'm sure Watson can take care of himself…"

"I bet Holmes already has him brainwashed, or maybe he's using blackmail. You know he blackmails people all the time. Richardson, down in holding, she said…"

"Sally, enough. The incident with Richardson was resolved. And we both know she wasn't entirely innocent," said Lestrade.

"But that soldier, he's already vulnerable because he's being stalked by some other psychopath. The same one who wanted to murder your partner," exclaimed the earnest Sergeant. "So of course, Watson is probably afraid and confused and Holmes is taking advantage of it."

"Oh God, Sally. John Watson is not another stray waiting for you to rescue him. Haven't you got your hands full trying to save Anderson," Lestrade regretted his words as soon as they left his mouth.

"Have you met his wife? Have you?" demanded the coffee-skinned woman grimly. "Anderson is no angel; I know. But that woman he married is take'n 'im to the cleaners. This time, she made him sell his car. His car! So she could go on holiday with her cousin. I bet you fifty quid it's not her cousin. And she's hit him, I've seen the evidence…"

Oh God, thought Greg gripping his aching forehead. The visual of Anderson with hidden bruising, now revealed to the light of day was enough to make the detective inspector feel ill. Then he felt guilty. If what Sally said was true, then Lestrade should at least try to offer Anderson support. He sighed deeply. He'd have to call Anderson in tomorrow. This night just kept getting worse and worse.

"…no one understands him. You know, he's actually very good at his job. But when was the last time you bothered to give Anderson an "atta boy" for a job well done. No, you save that for your pet psychopath, just 'cause he's family. And then you leave a mentally compromised, injured man alone and virtually naked with that predator. Did you see his bruises and that bite on his shoulder? Did you actually look at him?"

"Sally, yes. I saw. They do corroborate his statements…"

"They mean that someone is abusing him. That man is being systematically abused, and how d'you know it's all from that Irish businessman? How d'you know Holmes isn't involved? He probably controls Watson by beating him!"

"That's ridiculous. Now you're completely out of line," said Lestrade fed up. He did not want to think about the soldier standing naked in the loo. It was embarrassing. It was disturbing. It was arousing. Shite.

"I'm telling you Watson needs protective custody; in fact, I have a guest room. Watson could stay with me until…"

Well, now her cards were on the table.

"You think he's cute," said Greg hiding his grin behind his hand.

"What? NO!" said Sally taking the turn a bit fast. Luckily, they had the road to themselves this early in the morning.

"Yeah, you do. You were turned on," Lestrade chuckled openly. "You liked what you saw, and now you think John Watson needs saving, huh? My advice it that you concentrate on your menagerie, Sally. Try to remember; you already have a cat, three dogs and some creepy, weasely thing."

"It's a ferret named Veronica. And she's adorable. And…"

"And I was taking about Anderson," said Lestrade straight-faced.

Sergeant Donovan stopped the car and then punched her boss's shoulder. She was strong, and it hurt. "That's exactly what I'm on about. Anderson gets no respect, not even from you. I should make you walk the rest of the way. I really should."

"Pax! Pax!" said the detective inspector with his hands up in surrender. "I was out of line. I'm sorry. And Anderson's problems are no joking matter. He's very lucky to have a friend like you, Sally. Okay?"

"Damn straight," snarled the younger woman, heading her car back on to the deserted street. "But Watson…"

"Look, I have no idea what Watson sees in that arrogant consulting detective. Maybe he gets off on geniuses; even you gotta admit Sherlock's a genius. John Watson is old enough to make his own decisions, and strong enough to handle Sherlock. And an ex-soldier like him won't appreciate you getting involved."

They drove in silence for a few minutes.

"He was kinda cute," Sally finally admitted. "All blushing and pink, like. And sticking his nose up in the air, like he could care less that he was starkers." She began sniggering again. "But he din't fool me for a minute."

Lestrade began chuckling too. "Yeah. You know, i have to admit I thought he was a bit cute. And for the record, this conversation never happened. I'll deny it under oath," he added.

She pulled her car over to the side of the road, a block away from the mansion where Lestrade lived with his lover. His supposedly late lover. She sobered up. She was one of the few who knew the truth that Mycroft Holmes was alive and in hiding, directing the search for the man who ordered his assassination.

What a fucked up mess this was, and, as usual, her boss was stuck in the middle of it. Sometimes, Sally thought that Mycroft Holmes was almost as bad as his bother. Always manipulating Greg Lestrade. Always bossing him around.

Hopefully, her boss didn't know that he was one of her pet projects too. She worried about the effect that the Holmes brothers had the detective inspector. She was concerned about how they stressed Lestrade out. Well, one of these days, he'd have to admit that the Holmes brothers were screwing him over, and Sally would be the first to help rescue him. Right after she said, 'I told you so."

"Thanks for the ride, Sally" he said. "You were right; I _was_ too tired to drive. Haven't gotten much sleep lately."

"Yeah, I was right. Well, I better mark that down on the calendar," she said gruffly. "Look, you get some rest and don't come into work this morning. No…" she held up her hand to stall his protest. "I scheduled the news conference for 2pm. I "leaked" some tidbits. Enough that everyone will know that the serial suicides were murder and that the suspect was killed by some unidentified criminal element. I may have implied it was sorta gangland style."

"Brilliant, Donovan. At the very least, that will buy us some time" Lestrade was grateful for his lieutenant's support. "Good job. Atta boy!" he added with a boyish grin.

She scowled and punched him again.

* * *

Greg unlocked the main door, which was draped with black bunting and wreath, as was befitting a house in mourning. Christ, the thought that it could have been real was enough to freak him out.

The butler/bodyguard nodded at him, as he passed through to the hidden elevator, leading down to the 'dungeons', which is how Lestrade refered to Mycroft's secret underground lair. Which begged the question; just how many secret basement hideouts were there in London?

The elevator doors slid open to reveal Mycroft waiting, already dressed for the day. It would appear that the British Government was dressing down today; he wore his dress trousers and a tailored button down shirt. There was no tie, and, instead of a suit jacket, a silky grey cardigan topped off the elegant ensemble.

"Mycr…" Lestrade was cut off when his taller partner leaned down to give him a chaste kiss. The kiss deepened and lasted until the elevator doors tried to close on the rumpled detective.

"I thought you'd be sleeping, Myc. Shouldn't you be in bed?" asked Greg with concern.

"I should not. It's half four, I am always up by this time, Gregory. And don't fuss; I'm fine," drawled the politician. "The bruising will take time to heal, but it really doesn't bother me as long as I take it easy. I must say that John Watson's balm seems to really help; he's a clever little man."

Mycroft had been guiding his partner to the large bedroom, which had been his sickroom only a day ago. Now it was filled with a paper strewn desk, a chest of drawers and a very comfortable looking king sized bed.

"In fact," said the politician smoothly, "you are the one who will be going to bed now. You haven't slept in over 38 hours."

"I also haven't showered and…"

"I anticipated that, Gregory and everything you need is in the en suite bathroom," said Greg's ginger-headed companion. Mycroft went in and began filling the tub with hot water. He helped Greg slip out of his jacket and began unbuttoning his shirt.

"Myc, I think I can handle this," chuckled the detective inspector, who secretly loved this unexpected attention.

"And I think you deserve a little 'TLC', as you like to call it, Gregory," said Mycroft. "Now, I know how hard this has been on you, trying to find the man who hired the sniper and then there was this terrible business of the serial murders. I am well aware that my sibling has caused as much confusion as he has helped solve crimes… Gregory, you _will_ allow me," insisted the ginger, batting his partner's hands aside and removing the very wrinkled shirt.

His nimble fingers soon had Greg undressed. Then he tried to lead his lover to the tub. However, the stockier man insisted on another embrace before getting into the tub. He held Mycroft delicately, as if the minor government official he might break.

Finally, Mycroft all but pushed his boyfriend into the tub.

"Silly man, you're falling asleep standing up, now sit down and get soaking, said Mycroft mock sternly.

"Listen, Myc," said Lestrade. He was reluctant to break the romantic mood but felt Mycroft needed to know what happened with his brother. "Look, I have to tell you about Sherlock. He found the murderer. But there were complications, and … well, Sherlock behaved foolishly."

"It's fine, love. The miscreant has already confessed everything, without any urging on my part," said the British Government sourly. "He even used the phone instead of texting. I was given to understand that our marksman was Johnny on the spot, literally, shooting the assassin and saving Sherlock."

"Wait, did you just make a joke? You?" asked Lestrade who gratefully accepted a mug of ale from the ginger. He assumed one of the minions brought it in to the bedroom, while Greg was naked and in the tub with an open door…creepy. He forced himself to not think about Mycroft's staff lurking about and instead took another swallow of beer.

"I have no idea, Gregory, did I make a joke?" said Mycroft slyly.

Lestrade snorted into his nearly empty mug. Mycroft smirked and sipped his cup of tea. He leaned against the door jamb, admiring his lover.

"Of course, Sherlock phoned me for another reason; we had much to discuss. He has finally given me a name, Jim Moriarty, probably James really. Of course we're still searching for his underground offices. It's quite extraordinary that this Moriarty has been able to hide his activities so well, right under our noses." Both men grimaced at that thought, because both men took their jobs seriously. Greg protected London. Mycroft protected everything else.

"It is also strange that this criminal genius is so fascinated by the same man who has finally captured the attention of my, hitherto very unromantic, brother," mused the ginger.

"Yeah, that was bothering me," admitted Greg leaning his head back, not looking at all bothered right now. "I'll tell you what. I was suspicious of Watson. I mean he _just happened_ to be there at the right time to save Sherlock and all. And of course Sherlock had to complicate it with another one of his virtuoso performances. But, in the end, I still trust him, John Watson I mean. Not Sherlock. I wouldn't trust your little brother as far as I could throw him." Greg's voice was little more than a murmur as his eyes slid shut. "No offence."

"None taken. I am well aware that you have been one of Sherlock's staunchest supporters since before I finally got up the courage to court you," a faint blush crept graced Mycroft's usually pale cheeks. "Well, to cut to the chase, Sherlock gave me the unvarnished tale of his and Doctor Watson's adventures. My assistants examined phone records, tapped into Sherlock's computer, and even found the cabbie who drove the good doctor to the school grounds. It all checks out. Doctor Watson apparently deduced that my reckless brother had voluntarily run off with a serial killer. Watson managed to track my brother down, just in the nick of time. He saved my little brother's life." Mycroft sighed. "There is more to that army doctor than meets the eye. And London's resident genius both sense this.

Mycroft was startled out of his monologue by snoring.

"And you, my dear, are sound asleep," said the British Government tartly.

The detective inspector woke easily enough, so that Mycroft did not have to strain himself when helping the stockier man to bed. However, Greg was back asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow. Mycroft ran his fingers through the silvered hair and took out his phone to send a text to his little brother. He hated texting but didn't want to wake Gregory.

**I understand that despite my advice and despite the danger, you are keeping him. Anon1**

Mycroft hit send. A response followed quickly.

**Obviously. I believe that I can make him happy. Imanon2**

Mycroft nearly dropped his phone. Sherlock wanted to make someone happy? Impossible.

**I suspect you are now overwhelmed by my maudlin sentimentality. Do not be. I will continue to avoid all sentiment, except in the matter of my new PA. ****Imanon2**

**Very well. If you are set on this path, there is nothing I can say, except that his p****ersonal history does not suggest that he will welcome your advances. Do not set yourself up for disappointment. ****Anon1**

**2****Wrong. You must be suffering from cake withdrawal. I can assure you that he was most receptive and now rests satsifactorily. ****Imanon2**

Dear God. His brother, Sherlock Holmes, was smitten, badly. He was so far gone, that he was bragging about his virility. Mycroft shifted uncomfortably, perhaps he should check to make sure that the apocalypse had not started without him. As if. Another message arrived.

**He and I are of course cognizant of the threat that Moriarty presents. I have instructed him to pretend that he and I are only flatmates and colleagues. We shall maintain this fiction until the threat is eliminated. Just keep your promises Mycroft-all of them. Imanon2**

**Very well. Keep your flatmate out of trouble until the arrangements are complete. Perhaps you could divert him with your newfound domesticity. You could serve him breakfast in bed, unless you were planning to have him for breakfast. Anon1**

Perhaps that last bit was uncalled for. But really, he hated it when Sherlock bragged about his sexual prowess, really it was so adolescent. And this Watson was entirely different from Sherlock's usual one night wonders; surely he deserved to be treated less like a feather in Sherlock's cap.

**And perhaps you should attend to your partner. I do not appreciate the way he ogles my John. Imanon2**

Dear God. _My John_? Sherlock was already calling the soldier _MY JOHN'_? Impossible.

And what the hell did he mean by implying that his Gregory would be tempted by that foreshortened excuse for a has-been soldier.

Attend to my partner indeed! He studied his sleeping partner. He trusted Gregory implicitly.

He nibbled delicately at one manicured fingernail. Still, if Sherlock and that Jim Moriarty saw something special in John Watson, then perhaps Gregory had too.

Very well. I _shall_ attend to my partner. Mycroft threw back the covers and lowered himself onto the softly snoring, conveniently nude detective.

Mycroft was more than fit enough to kiss his partner to wakefulness. Strong arms gently encircled the lithe politician, as Mycroft slowly but steadily kissed, licked and bit every exposed part of his partner's very inviting body.

He had made his way down to Gregory's soft belly, lightly furred with light brown hair. Greg's hand gently combed through Mycroft's reddish hair, but otherwise, he held eerily still. No doubt, the older man harbored some absurd notion that he might hurt Mycroft. Silly man, Mycroft had a couple of bruised ribs, the rest of him was fine. Mycroft was a genius; he could certainly manage to attend to his partner with out straining his ribs.

To begin with, there was nothing wrong with Mycroft's mouth. He shifted south and began biting his lover's thighs, moving up toward the prize. In fact, Mycroft's mouth would be able to attend to all of his Gregory's needs. His talented mouth forced a groan from his panting lover, who arched up into Mycroft. This was more like it, thought the ginger. Mycroft was determined that his Gregory would not be able to restrain himself at all.

As his silver haired man fell apart underneath him, Mycroft ensured that there would be no need for his Gregory to ogle anyone else. Ever. Again.

**A/N** Actually, I have very little to say, except **THANK YOU. **

Thank you for reading, following and favoriting this fic.

Thank you for reviewing, nothing makes my day like reviews! Thank you to sasodei-iz-awesome, consulting smartass, Quiet Time, foxeeflame, power0girl, dana-san, anyrei1, SamuelE8688, Wicked Winter, 8of9 and InuChimera7410.

**Disclaimer**-SHERLOCK belongs to the BBC and or Moffat or Gatiss. I own nothing except my flights of fancy. How dull.


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